


The Unraveling of Victor Nikiforov

by Glaucus_Atlanticus



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Canon Era, Humor, Knitting, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mutual Pining, POV Victor Nikiforov, Ugly Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-06-17 04:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 74,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15453861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glaucus_Atlanticus/pseuds/Glaucus_Atlanticus
Summary: Victor came to Hasetsu with two goals: to help Yuuri win the Grand Prix Final, and to get in Yuuri's pants. But when Makkachin destroys Yuuri's beloved handmade sweater, Victor must hide the evidence before it ruins his chances with Yuuri forever.Small secrets grow into bigger secrets, and the more Victor tries to conceal, the more Hasetsu peels his masks away. For once, he's encountered a problem that can't be solved with money—and in order to fix it, he must also fix himself.





	1. The Clown

Hot Springs on Ice was sold on a lie.

It wasn’t a big lie, Victor told himself each morning. The competition was real, and Yurio had a real chance of winning. Any judge could look at the base point totals and the videos to affirm that Victor scored the contestants fairly. To do any less would be unfair to Yuuri and Yurio alike.

But when Yuuri stepped onto the ice to perform Eros, Victor had to cross his arms to keep his hands from trembling. And when Yuuri skated off to screams from his awestruck audience, Victor hid his avalanche of relief by dissecting every falter he’d found in Yuuri’s routine.

He couldn’t let the act drop while the cameras were watching. Not without Yuuri and Yurio paying the price. But his smile, for once, was real. Yuuri Katsuki, Ace of Japan and breaker of hearts, had chosen _him_.

All too soon, he and Yuuri were separated by journalists and the crowd, and Victor slid back into press-conference mode, deflecting questions about the uproar he’d left behind in Russia. The point was to bring attention to Yuuri and Hasetsu, not himself. It took some time before someone asked him a question that actually mattered.

“Mr. Nikiforov! What was it about Katsuki that made you want to coach him?”

Ah, Hisashi Morooka. The announcer was one of the few whose commentary did Yuuri justice. Victor’s smile turned sharp.

“When I saw the way he moved, it struck a chord with me. Yuuri creates music with his body. I would be a fool to let that go to waste.”

There. Something nice and family-friendly, which Morooka could put in his program. His viewers would think Victor was referring to Yuuri’s viral video. The attendees from the GPF banquet last year knew differently.

He answered more questions on autopilot, half an eye on the production crew packing their equipment. Across the lobby, Yuuri bowed to his fans, his blush visible even from here. A lovely sight, though why he’d be blushing after his victory, Victor couldn’t fathom. Perhaps he was embarrassed?

Yuuri managed to break away from his fans and set the bouquets they’d given him on the counter. He chatted with Yuuko, pulling on his coat. One of Victor’s production assistants handed Yuuri an envelope, and his eyes widened when he opened it. He looked up, through the thinning crowd, and Victor met his gaze with a wink.

Coaching fees wouldn’t be an issue now.

Yuuri hurried over, and hovered a short distance from the reporters. Victor pulled Yuuri beside him, cameras flashing in their faces.

“This is only the beginning,” he said, continuing his previous statements, “with only two weeks of practice. By December, Yuuri will make the Final, easily.”

Yuuri tensed, and spoke in a low voice. “Victor.”

“Hmm?”

“Can we talk in private?”

“Of course.” He looked back to the reporters and waved. “As you can imagine, it’s been a long day for us, so that’s all for questions. Thanks for coming to the show!”

The journalists grudgingly drifted away, and Victor walked with Yuuri back to the counter. Yuuko perked up at them, but her shoulders sagged.

“Yurio left already. He says to tell you he’ll win the Grand Prix Final.”

“Oh.” Yuuri looked at the floor. “I wanted to wish him luck for next year.”

Victor’s lip twitched. To Yurio, that comment would have only rubbed salt onto his wound, even if Yuuri meant it sincerely. “We’ll see about that.”

Yuuko clasped her hands together. “Victor, can you check on him? To make sure he gets back to Russia?” She gave him a tight smile. “He’s not my responsibility, but he is only fifteen.”

“He’s very capable for his age, despite his rough attitude.”

“I still worry.”

His eyes flickered to the empty second-place spot on the podium, and he looked away. Yurio had flown all the way to Japan by himself, and traveled for competitions all the time. His loud mouth would scare off anyone who tried to mess with him. He’d be fine.

Victor turned back to Yuuko. “I’ll check on him.”

“Thank you.”

She waved them through to the skate rental room, well out of public view. Yuuri sat down on a bench, clutching the envelope, and Victor sat at his side.

Away from the reporters and event staff, the walls muffled the sounds of people, and Yuuri’s envelope fell to the bench with a faint tap. He leaned down, untying his skates with shaking hands. So strange. He’d found his Eros, hadn’t he? Yurio would have been jumping up and down and shouting his victory to all of Hasetsu.

At last, Yuuri was back in his regular shoes, and couldn’t stall any longer. He scooted back on the bench, opened it again, and held its contents out between them.

“Victor,” he said, paper trembling in his hand, “what is this?”

“A notification of payment.” Victor gestured back towards the rink. “Early, I know, but my team works fast. And it doesn’t include the licensing or broadcast rights yet.”

Yuuri blinked at him. “What licensing and broadcast rights?”

Victor’s smile stayed in place, but his fingers tightened in his lap.

“For the show. The show you just won.”

“I’m getting paid for that?”

Victor smiled very, very hard. What had Yuuri _thought_ he was signing two weeks ago?

“Don’t be coy, I know you’ve done ice shows before. Your role in _Voyevoda_ was exceptional, by the way.”

Yuuri hunched his shoulders at that, and hid his face behind the paper in his hands. He mumbled something in Japanese.

Victor watched the blush rising to Yuuri’s cheeks appreciatively. Yuuri was oddly bashful, yes. But Victor couldn’t look away any more than he could during that fateful night in Sochi.

Ah, Sochi. Glorious Sochi. Victor would find a way to re-enact it yet.

Yuuri peeked up over the rim of his glasses. “Victor?”

“Yes, my Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s eyes widened at that. Victor’s smile grew bigger. He’d have to remember that one.

Yuuri coughed and tapped at the numbers on the page. “This is two million yen. That can’t possibly be right.”

“Nonsense. I personally approved the show’s budget. This is exactly in line with projected revenue.”

“But what about the price of the costume?”

“A gift.”

“I can’t just...” Yuuri ducked his head and muttered something else incomprehensible.

Victor leaned in and placed a finger on Yuuri’s lips.

“I did not say,” he said, voice low, “that it was a gift for _you_. I got to see you in my clothes, performing my routine. I’ve never such a tasty pork cutlet bowl.”

Yuuri’s eyes crossed on Victor’s finger, and he gulped, before pulling back.

“I,” he said, fingers crinkling the paper at its edges. “Um. Thank you.”

“No. Thank _you_. I’m going to enjoy being your coach.” He looked Yuuri up and down. “And yet, I feel like I hardly know you. Perhaps this evening, we could—”

“ _Yuuri!_ ”

Minako Okukawa burst through the door. She pulled Yuuri up and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him tight.

“I’m so proud of you! You’ve worked so, so hard these last two weeks, and it paid off beautifully! You’ve defended Hasetsu’s honor and put us in the news! We’re all thrilled for you!”

Yuuri laughed once, startled, before relaxing and patting her on the back.

“Heh, um. Thanks.”

“Party at my bar tonight!” she sang, pumping her fist in the air. “Be there! Dress up! I want all of Japan to know that Yuuri Katsuki is back in the game, and the world better watch out.”

Yuuri rubbed his neck. “It’s thanks to Victor, really.”

Minako paused mid-pose and looked over her shoulder, back at Victor. He shrugged and smiled at her.

“I suppose you can come, too,” she said. “You’ll be good for attracting customers.”

Yuuri sputtered. “Minako!”

“Be there,” she repeated, then twirled on her heel and marched out the door, calling to everyone in the lobby. “Party at my bar! Everyone come tonight!”

Yuuri rubbed his neck and looked at Victor from the corner of his eye.

“Sorry about her. She’s not trying to be rude.”

Victor rose to his feet. “She’s a businesswoman. I understand completely.”

Yuuri’s shoulders loosened. He held the notification of payment out to Victor.

“You’re already coaching me and gave me a costume. I can’t take this.”

Victor crossed his arms, but kept his smile in place.

“Yuuri.” His tone made Yuuri straighten up immediately. “Consider this your first lesson from your coach. If you’re good at something, never do it for free.”

Yuuri smiled wanly back. “Yeah, but that would require me to be _good_ at something.”

Victor stared. Only force of habit kept his smile from falling off his face.

Yuuri’s mouth turned down. He averted his eyes. “Sorry, just trying to make a joke. It wasn’t a very good one, I guess.”

Victor leaned forward. He lifted Yuuri’s chin in his hand.

“You said that you lacked confidence.”

“Yes?”

“I can’t wait to show you,” he said, trailing his thumb across Yuuri’s cheek, “how erotic you can truly be.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened, then he jerked away, shoved the envelope back in his pocket, and fled the building. Victor stared, hand outstretched where Yuuri had been.

Was it something he said? No matter. Yuuri would open up to him in time. And Victor had to pay his event and production crews, anyway.

By the time he returned to Yu-Topia, his bank accounts were several thousand dollars lighter, but the projected revenues from broadcast rights and merchandise more than made up for it. Nishigori’s jaw had dropped when Victor gave him Ice Castle Hasetsu’s share. Yuuko had had another nosebleed.

Victor barely restrained himself from skipping on the tatami mats. He closed the bathroom door behind him, and redid his hair and makeup in the mirror. Perfect. He winked to himself, putting on his most rakish grin.

He and Yuuri could write their own schedule from here on out. Ice Castle Hasetsu was a small rink. That had disappointed Victor at first, but it also meant Yuuri wouldn’t have to share the ice with a hockey team or other competitive skaters. After the profit from Hot Springs on Ice, Yuuko would let them book all the time they wanted. Their biggest hurdle to winning the Grand Prix Final was taken care of.

At the same time, he had brought Ice Castle, the onsen, and Hasetsu itself to national attention, boosting publicity for the town’s struggling tourism industry. He’d wiped out his debt to Yurio and Yuuri’s worry about coaching fees in one day. There had even been enough left over for Victor to line his own bank account, which would please his team back in Russia.

Victor checked his eyes, making sure no unsightly bags were visible. He hadn’t slept more than five hours a night in the last two weeks. With the show over, the extra coffee he had an hour ago was already wearing off.

Yuuri’s parents were busy closing the onsen for the night and telling the patrons about Minako’s party, but Victor found Mari alone, poking her head into his room with a rolled-up poster under one arm.

“Ah, Mari! Looking for the kimono?”

He held up the robe Toshiya had let him borrow, neatly folded. Mari frowned at it for a second, then took it in her arms.

“The yukata, right. Thank you.”

“Yukata,” Victor corrected himself. “I’d thank Toshiya personally, but he seems occupied at the moment.”

“No problem.” Her lip quirked up. “I’m surprised you actually went through with it. No offense, but your Japanese could use some work.”

“It,” meaning his dress-up stunt in front of the cameras, complete with bad Japanese and telling the baffled journalists to visit Hasetsu’s hot springs. Victor grinned. Why else had they thought it was called “Hot Springs on Ice?”

“It got people’s attention, didn’t it?”

Mari tilted her chin back towards the lounge. “Any more attention and we’ll have to kick people out. Can’t say I’m complaining about business picking up, and I do appreciate it, but...”

“But hold off for a while, right?”

“Bingo.”

Victor lowered his head, and a weight he’d carried for the past month eased in his chest.

He had come to Hasetsu with the memory of Yuuri saying, “Visit me in Japan, my family runs a hot spring business.” An invitation, no, a _demand_. Victor had looked up images of onsens and ryokans, and flown in expecting to book a room like any other guest at a resort.

He had not expected to find that Yuuri’s family _literally_ ran the business, just the four of them, and the onsen was their _home._ They were barely making enough to support themselves, much less take in a boarder. With Hasetsu dropping off the tourist maps, they needed a promotional campaign that they couldn’t afford.

But Victor Nikiforov could. Hot Springs on Ice would ensure the Katsukis were well compensated for their hospitality to him and Yurio. It was the least he could do.

“How are you doing, Mari? I can only imagine how this month has been for you.”

Her eyebrows rose, and she shifted the poster in her hand.

“I’m fine. But if you have any more skater friends who’ll be joining us, a heads-up would be nice.”

Victor laughed and shook his head. That wouldn’t be a problem; he didn’t have any skater friends.

“I’m amazed Yurio was able to sneak away from Yakov in the first place.”

Mari’s eyes lit up, then flickered. “Yeah, speaking of Yurio, have you seen him anywhere?”

“He left early. He already had his bags packed by the time the competition started.”

“What, he’s gone already? To where?”

“To the airport, waiting for a plane back to Russia.”

Mari lowered her head, clutching the yukata and poster to her chest. A rare shadow of worry fell over her usually impassive face.

“But Yurio is...he’s fifteen, isn’t he? Are you sure he’s alright?”

Victor chuckled. He pitied the kidnapper foolish enough to mess with the so-called “Russian Punk.”

“He got himself from Russia to Hasetsu easily enough. He posts everything on Instagram, and Yuuko is texting him. He’ll be fine.”

She looked down at the poster in her hand. “That’s not what I meant. I hope he didn’t feel like he was unwanted here.”

“Don’t worry about that. He’s always prickly. But underneath it, he did appreciate your hospitality.”

Mari’s frown deepened, and she studied Victor. As the seconds passed, something seemed to soften in her eyes.

“No, I mean...He came all this way for you. And when you chose Yuuri, Yurio ran off without a word to us.”

Victor blinked. Had that surprised her? Yurio never approached Victor except for skating advice, and then only because Victor didn’t yell like Yakov did. Apart from that, Yurio would have nothing to do with him.

“He wanted a routine. I gave him a routine.” And a costume, and music, and ten percent of the earnings from the ice show. “He got what he came for, why wouldn’t he leave?”

Mari’s face closed off, and her eyes became carefully neutral.

“So that’s how it is. I see.”

She began walking away. For all his reassurances, she didn’t seem very happy. As if she’d been expecting something more from him. Ah, but of course!

“Mari?”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“I can send your poster to Yurio’s address in Russia. He’ll be happy to sign it for you.”

Mari regarded him for a moment, still with that flat gaze, and her head shook ever so slightly.

“See you later, Nikiforov.”

She departed, leaving Victor alone in the hallway. His smile dimmed. Something had gone wrong somewhere in that conversation, but he couldn't tell what.

Victor shoved the small pang in his chest away. Tonight was a time for celebrating. He pulled himself together, strode to the end of the hall, and knocked on Yuuri’s door.

“Come in!”

Victor swung the door open, took a second to process what he was seeing, and shrieked.

He slammed the door shut between him and whatever that _thing_ was, that horrible thing with eyes that drilled into Victor’s soul, and pressed his hands against the wood as if that gesture could stop the _thing_ from lunging at him.

“Victor?” Yuuri’s voice called from behind the door. “It’s just me.”

Victor slowed his breathing. His knuckles pressed white against the hardwood, and he swallowed.

“Right. Yes. Of course it is.”

The handle turned, and Victor jumped back. The door opened to reveal Yuuri’s face—but below that—

Two eyes, gaping and misshapen, sat like tumors on Yuuri’s chest. A grimace in puce stretched up from his bellybutton to his elbows, coiled more like entrails than lips. The skinned pelt of Tickle-Me-Elmo clung to his shoulders, clashing with leering ginger eyebrows over his nipples.

Yuuri tilted his head, hand resting against the door frame. “Are you okay?”

Victor rubbed his eyes, then mentally kicked himself when he realized he’d have to check his makeup again later. All that caffeine and sleep deprivation must have caught up to him.

“I should be asking you that.”

“Huh?”

Victor slid past him, never turning his back to the _thing_ , and shut the door behind them. He would have pulled Yuuri with him, but that would have involved touching the _thing_ , and it might have been contagious.

“Did you lose a bet? Did Yurio make you do this?” Victor circled him, keeping the horrible cloth-creature at a safe distance. “Did all your real clothes grow wings and fly away?”

Yuuri frowned, then looked down at himself. “This is a sweater.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “That’s debatable.”

“I _like_ this sweater.”

Dear god. It was worse than Victor thought. He knelt down on one knee in front of Yuuri, steeled himself to look past the monster up at Yuuri’s beautiful face, and lay a hand over his heart.

“I will buy you a sweater. A soft, custom-fitted cashmere, in burgundy to bring out your eyes. With _pockets_.”

Yuuri stepped back. “That’s not really necessary...”

“Think of your sponsors.” Think of the good of humanity, more like. “You’re Japan’s Ace. One of the top-ranked figure skaters on the planet. In a sport where half your score and most of your funding depends on your image.”

Something dulled in Yuuri’s eyes, and he gave Victor an unreadable look.

“And you think this doesn’t fit my image.”

It wouldn’t have suited anyone but the creepy uncle all the kids stayed away from at family reunions, but Victor managed to avoid saying that. He did his best to smile, though he had to avert his eyes from the sweater to do so.

“Consider,” he said, rising to his feet, “is this something you’d want to be photographed in, with the gold medal around your neck?”

Yuuri fiddled with the hem of the sweater. The threads came apart in his fingers. Moths had eaten holes in several spots, and probably died as a result. One of the sleeves was longer than the other.

“Victor, my mom made this for me.”

Victor froze. His face paled and his jaw shut with a click.

Yuuri looked away, picking at one of the loose threads on the sleeves. A few more stitches came loose as he tugged it. Makkachin wandered in through the doorway.

“I know it’s not what most people would wear,” Yuuri said. “But she spent months working on this. She gave it to me right before I left for Detroit, so for five years it was the closest thing I had to being near her.”

Victor leaned back on his heels. He gulped. “Ah.”

Another stitch fell out.

“But if you think it’d be bad for the sponsorships,” Yuuri said, and bit his lip. “Well, I guess you’d know better than I would. I’ll wear something else to the party.”

He slunk past Victor to his closet door, and an old heaviness sank in Victor’s chest.

_Idiot!_ The sharp words of Lilia Baranovskaya rang in his ears. _No matter if your feet bleed or your hands shake, you must never disappoint your fans!_

Victor shook himself. He knew better than this. What _he_ thought about the sweater didn’t matter; what mattered was bringing the spark back into Yuuri’s eyes.

“Really, the sweater’s not that bad.”

That was a lie. But no matter. Pretty lies made people happy.

Yuuri said nothing, and pulled the sweater off. Victor’s heart sank a little further.

“I was joking,” he said. “Sorry it didn’t come across very well. It’s a sweet story, what your mother did. What’s the Japanese word? _Kawaii_?”

Yuuri shook his head. “It’s fine. Catch.”

“What?”

A giant clown monster hurled itself at his face, and Victor yelped, raising his arms to protect himself. A second later, the sweater dropped to the floor. They both stared at the sad heap of fabric, and Makkachin sniffed at it.

“Victor...you’re not scared of clowns, are you?”

Visions of impossibly wide grins on bone-white cheeks flickered in his mind’s eye, and Victor’s fingers tightened in his crossed arms.

“Of course not, Yuuri. That would be silly.”

“Okay, good.” Yuuri turned back to sorting through his clothes. “I never understood why some people think clowns are scary. They’re just goofy guys in makeup.”

A clothes-hangar screeched as he pushed it over the rod, and Victor definitely did not jump.

“Right,” he mumbled. “Completely ridiculous.”

“Mom and I liked to watch _It_ before I went to America.” Yuuri pulled a blue sweater on. “I always thought it was funny how people thought Pennywise was scary. That’s where Mom got the sweater idea from.”

Victor tried not to shudder. He studied Yuuri with wide eyes. A multilingual world-class figure skater, who competed full time and earned a college degree, could go from “adorable” to “sex god” in thirty seconds flat, _and_ brushed off horror stories like they were nothing?

This must be why the universe made Yuuri Katsuki so shy. Otherwise, he would have been too powerful for humanity to handle.

Victor pried the sweater out of Makkachin’s paws, held it as far away from himself as possible, and dropped it on the bed.

“Your mother is a kind woman. She must have worked hard on...this.”

“She’s the best.” Yuuri smoothed the new sweater over his stomach. He gestured to himself. “Better?”

Yuuri looked fantastic in any clothes that were not crimes against the human retina. He looked even better in no clothes, but alas, that was not an option right now. Victor nodded to him and opened the door to the hall.

“Perfect. Shall we go?”

As they left, Victor sent one last look over his shoulder at the sweater on the bed, and Makkachin sniffing it again.

“Your instincts are right, old girl,” he whispered. “If that thing comes to life, we’re counting on you.”

Makkachin wagged her tail at him, and barked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri's atrocious sweater is inspired by the amazing [Clownsweater Project](http://www.clownsweater.com). The real thing is a commercial product from 1997, so 1) we can laugh at it in good conscience, and 2) dear god, there's more than one.
> 
> Two million yen is about $18,000. That's high payment for skating in an ice show, but feasible since only two skaters performed and both are already famous.


	2. The Hero

The moment Victor and Yuuri entered the Kachu Snack Bar, a tsunami of cheers crashed into them, along with joyful calls in Japanese. Yuuri stepped back, as if he hadn’t yet realized they were all gathered in _his_ honor. He knocked into Victor, blinked up at him with a faint blush, then scrambled to stand up straight.

“Sorry,” he said. Or at least, that’s probably what he said, if Victor could have heard him over the crowd.

“It’s fine.” Victor looked up to see Toshiya running toward them. “Ah, Mr. Katsuki, it’s a pleasure to—”

Toshiya grabbed Yuuri by the shoulders and hauled him to the center of the room, beamed and shouted something to the audience, and they cheered again. Yuuri shook under the attention, but he managed to keep his head high and wave a little.

Victor snuck around the edge of the crowd. Or at least, as well as a six foot tall silver-haired Russian could sneak. Which was pretty good, actually, since everyone was fixated on Yuuri. Victor sat down on a stool at the corner of the bar, arms crossed, with a professional smile he could maintain indefinitely in case any paparazzi were lurking. The noise and the late hour did no favors for his headache.

Over people’s heads, he could barely make out the posters of Hot Springs on Ice. Minako had snatched up armfuls of them as soon as they came off the press, and posted them all over town, all on her own minimal free time. Several copies of every version of the poster covered the walls of her bar, along with older advertizements for Hasetsu’s artists, businesses and tourist attractions.

The roar was dying down now, and Minako prodded Yuuri into signing posters for her patrons. Victor couldn’t make out the Japanese she and Toshiya were saying, but he didn’t need to. He had heard that same tone from Yakov in the old days, back when every gold medal was new and precious.

A group of teenagers shuffled near, and Victor reached for the marker that he always kept in his pocket. They passed him by and made a beeline for Yuuri. Victor’s smile flickered for a half a second before he settled back in his camera-ready pose.

When every poster (and quite a few notebooks, and clothes, and hands) had “Yuuri Katsuki” neatly printed on it in kanji, Yuuri scuttled to join his family in a booth at the far corner of the room. Victor was impressed that they fit him, Mari, their parents, Yuuko, _and_ Nishigori around one table. Yuuko’s daughters stood guard against any remaining fans who approached.

Victor tensed his shoulders and sat up straighter. With their hero unavailable, the crowds’ eyes might now turn to him. Half the Japanese he knew had been picked up from fans stopping him on the street, and the other half was ways to thank them and talk about skating.

A couple more women walked towards him. He caught their gazes, and they smiled at him before walking on to the vending machines on the back wall. They bought strawberry Pocky and returned to their seats. One of them glanced over her shoulder at Yuuri, and blushed.

For the first time in years, Victor was surrounded by a crowd, and none of them were looking at him. It was all about Yuuri. Yuuri, a diamond in the rough who certainly deserved their praise, but who shrank from it. While Victor, who had polished and sculpted himself and built a career on pleasing the crowd, sat on the other side of the bar, forgotten.

“Don’t take it personally.”

Behind the counter, Minako was pouring herself a cup of sake.

“You want anything?” She held the bottle up. “This one’s on the house.”

The ache in his temple was getting worse, and her selection of alcohol was excellent. But there was a time and place for letting loose, and a promotional celebration for his student was not it.

“Just a coffee, thanks.” His brain caught up to what she’d said. “What do you mean?”

She tilted her head towards the corner where the Katsuki family sat.

“Yuuri is something of a hero to this town. And you’re...”

“Not,” he finished.

An odd feeling settled in his stomach, and his shoulders loosened. Disappointment, perhaps? No. Disappointment was a silver medal round his neck when he’d been aiming for gold. This was something else.

Minako set down his mug. She surveyed the bar, nodded to herself, and pulled out a half-knitted scarf from under the counter. Without taking her eyes off the bar or its patrons, her hands flicked stitches effortlessly across the needles.

Victor sipped his coffee. Across the room, Yuuri’s eyes caught his, and he gave Victor a shy smile. Victor nodded and raised his mug: a silent toast. Yuuri reached to do the same with his own glass, but Nishigori pulled him into a bear hug and ruffled his hair. A few patrons watching them laughed. None of them followed Yuuri’s gaze back towards Victor.

No paparazzi here. No Victor fans here. Nobody watching him, judging him, ready to pounce on the slightest misstep.

Only years of habit, and Lilia’s _“No elbows on the table, Vitya!”_ kept Victor from leaning back and letting the tension sigh out of his body.

“No.” He took another sip of coffee. “It’s...good. I’m happy for him.”

Behind him, the clink-clink of Minako’s needles paused.

“I should certainly hope so, since you’re his coach now.”

“I am, aren’t I?” He held the warm mug to his chest, and snuck another glance at Yuuri.

_“Be my coach, Victor!”_

Six months ago, Yuuri had asked him that. Six weeks ago, Victor had said yes. Six hours ago, Victor had watched Yurio running in place like a caged tiger, Yuuri trembling and speaking to no one, and Victor had wondered if it had all been a colossal, horrible misunderstanding.

Sixty minutes ago, Yuuri had performed Eros so magnificently that _Yurio_ accepted his loss before Yuuri’s routine was even over. After weeks of blank stares and one-word answers, Yuuri had stolen Victor’s heart all over again without lifting a finger, and staked his claim without saying a word.

Oh, and he’d delivered a world-class performance of a routine Victor had spent months developing for _himself_ , after only two weeks of practice.

“I’m his coach,” Victor murmured. “How did _that_ happen?”

“You picked him.”

Minako’s voice shook him out of his reverie. She was frowning at him, needles clicking away.

Victor almost protested that Yuuri had picked _him_ , and Victor was merely glad to have confirmation of it now, but that would have been argumentative. Victor Nikiforov never started arguments. His job was to be as charming off the ice as he was while on it.

“How could I not,” he said with a smile, “after seeing _that?_ Only a fool would have turned him down.”

“I’m glad you think so. Otherwise, you’d be returning to Russia in a body bag.”

Victor froze, holding his mug in midair. Only years of practice kept the easy smile on his face.

He managed to laugh. “You have a great sense of humor, Ms. Okukawa.”

She didn’t smile back.

“He looks up to you, you know. I don’t think you know what it meant to him when you offered to be his coach.”

She was more right than she knew. From the day he’d arrived and Yuuri had asked, “Why are you here?” Victor hadn’t the faintest idea what went on in Yuuri’s head. He was pretty sure drunk-Yuuri was _not_ regular-Yuuri’s personality, and regular-Yuuri might not even like Victor, but then the Eros performance had happened and there had to be _something_ there. Right?

Unless Yuuri only wanted Victor as a coach, not as a boyfriend?

Victor shoved that thought away. His headache was getting worse.

He took another sip. “There is a lot about Yuuri I don’t know.”

“True,” Minako replied. “But also...I don’t think you realize what it meant, when right after becoming his coach, you threatened to leave.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The competition,” Minako said. She pulled the yarn tighter around her fingers. “It was great publicity, don’t get me wrong. But you didn’t see Yuuri’s face last night when he was practicing in my studio.”

Victor’s smile faltered. “He was up late practicing? Why?”

“It’s one thing to put pressure on someone to do their best,” she said. “I’m a professional dancer. I get that. But giving someone something they’ve always wanted, then threatening to snatch it away again...” She shook her head.

Victor’s lips pressed into a thin line. It was nice of her to flatter him, but he knew better. Up till Yurio’s arrival, Yuuri said little, barely made eye contact, and almost never smiled. He frequently ran off to be alone, and didn’t want Victor to see his room or watch his late-night skate sessions. Hardly the behavior of someone who’d been pining for Victor’s company.

“I appreciate the input,” Victor said, his media-ready response for anything he disagreed with. “I’ll think about what you said.”

“Anyway, you’re here now.” She set aside her knitting and pulled up her phone. “Email me so we can work out a schedule. I’m going to train Yuuri as well as I can during the hours he has with me. I expect you to do the same.”

He gave her his contact information, and clasped his hands on the counter. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

She curtseyed, western-style, then put back on her performer’s smile and floated around the rest of her customers.

Victor looked over at the Katsuki table. Toshiya and Nishigori were debating something in loud Japanese, and Yuuri was talking in a low voice with Yuuko. The six of them barely fit into the little booth, but they all seemed comfortable with each other.

Victor couldn’t recall the last time he’d sat so close to someone. At least, not when he was sober. It had been a huge shock when one of the other competitors approached him at that banquet in Sochi. Usually, the other skaters would merely send glances his way, perhaps a smile or a wave, and continue chatting amongst each other.

He scrolled through his social media accounts. The promotion for Hot Springs on Ice was being retweeted and reblogged all over the internet, and no doubt the sales of recordings from it would bring in several times the profit of the ticket sales themselves. His email and text messages were full of updates from his publicity manager, his event manager, and financial consultant, all glowing with praise. They called the day a roaring success.

Victor read those words. But he thought of Mari looking back and forth for a lost teenager, of Minako’s smile fading when Yuuri’s back was turned, of Yuuri going to his closet and taking off his mother’s sweater because Victor had insulted it. He pushed those images away.

A part of him felt hollow inside, probably because of too much coffee and too little sleep. The lights of the bar glared off the counter, and the dull rumble of the crowd rang in his ears. He just needed to rest. Then everything would be fine.

He finished off the last of his coffee, stood up, and left it on the counter, along with payment. He made eye contact with Minako and sent her a nod of thanks. Then, while the Katsukis were focused on each other, he slipped out of the bar.

Makkachin probably needed a walk by now, anyway.

The walk back to Yu-Topia was quiet, and darker than any of Victor’s late-night wanderings with Makkachin in St. Petersburg. An unseasonal cold front had struck that afternoon, and combined with the sea breeze to make the night downright chilly. No wonder Yuuri had insisted on a sweater.

He stopped in the middle of Pine Grove Bridge, eyes caught by the near total blackness of the water. It could as easily have been the void of space as Hasetsu Bay. Back home, the bay of St. Petersburg came alive each night with the lights of a thousand boats, barges and bridges, a hive of trade and transport that never slept. Hasetsu was one of the closest points in Japan to Korea, if Victor’s research was correct. Yet even now, in the heart of the tourist season, its waters were dark and still.

Victor shivered. He tore his gaze away from that black void, and set off walking again. He had traveled all over the world for his competitions, but he’d never lived in a small town before. People had warned him small towns were boring and nosy. Hasetsu was neither, but it was quieter than anywhere else Victor had been across five continents.

What was the hour in St. Petersburg? It would still be light out. Yakov would be awake.

Victor held his phone to his ear, dialing and re-dialing, before he even realized it.

“Vitya! What are you still doing over there?”

Victor let out a breath. He straightened up out of old habit.

“I’m coaching Yuuri Katsuki, remember? He did win Hot Springs on Ice. Oh! Did you not get to see it?”

“Of course I saw it! A fat load of foolishness, it was!”

Victor grinned. “Thank you, I do my best.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Not only did you drop all of your contracts with no notice, you broke your promise to my finest student!”

Of course, if Yakov had been talking to Yurio, he would have said Georgi was his finest student. If he’d been talking to Georgi, he would have said it was Mila. He never gave that title to Victor. In his words, Victor’s “head was big enough already.”

“Did I? I seem to recall promising to choreograph a program for Yurio. Which, you might notice, is exactly what I did.”

“Yurio?”

“Yura’s Japanese nickname. Isn’t it cute?”

The phone line burst with a staticky grumble. Victor’s smile widened.

“No, Vitya, it is not. And you only did that after he chased you all the way to Japan!”

“Details, details.”

Beyond the bridge, the breeze carried the scent of pine and salt through the streets, and whipped up the palm trees like dancing giants. He could see enough by the streetlights, save for long dark patches where the strip malls had shuttered for good, and billboards left empty and unlit. Victor had lived through the Russian economic crisis of the nineties, and knew too well what empty billboards meant.

“Besides, I made it worth his while. He got a $5000 costume, a two million yen check for his performance, and ten percent of the merchandising rights.”

Over the phone, he heard Yakov’s teeth grind.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Victor said. “But I don’t think he has much to complain about.”

“Always the money with you, Vitya. One day, you’ll realize that not all of your problems can be solved with money.”

Victor suppressed a frown. That was easy for Yakov to say. He had never been forced to choose between vet visits and skates, or begged his landlady for a little more time. He didn’t see the Soviet-era clunker Yurio’s grandfather drove, or the way Yuuri’s shoulders relaxed when Victor’s coaching fees were deferred.

But Yakov was as sentimental as a rusted hacksaw, so Victor held his tongue. Mostly.

“If not for solving problems, what’s the point of having money?”

Yakov sighed. Victor imagined him shaking his head, and glowering at the heavens.

“You should be back on the plane with Yura right now.”

“Sorry, but Yuuri—Japanese Yuuri—won.”

“Codswallop. Yura’s performance was better in every way.”

“Really, Yakov? Can you honestly say that?”

Yakov went silent.

“Yurio is a prodigy,” Victor said. “I won’t dispute that. But there’s more to figure skating than landing quads.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

Victor chuckled. “So I grew up a little. I thought you’d be pleased.”

Back when he had landed the first quad flip ever, it had launched the figure skating world into an uproar. Now? It was practically what they expected of him. And, though he’d never say it out loud, it had gotten old.

“But even so,” Yakov said, “where is your national pride? How could you choose the Japanese skater over your own countryman?”

Victor passed through a patch of darkness, and his steps tapped faintly against the asphalt.

“This isn’t 2002 anymore, Yakov. We don’t just vote for our own people now.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“This wasn’t about Japan and Russia. It was about Yurio and Yuuri.”

“It was about you pitting two boys against each other for your own amusement.”

Victor stopped walking, hand clenched in his pocket. He stood there, halfway between the streetlights, his shadow split in two. The night was getting colder, and his headache getting worse. But when he spoke, his voice was as light as a scalpel.

“How _are_ you doing, Yakov?”

“What?”

“Ever since your divorce from Lilia.”

He held the phone away from his ear, ready for the fire.

“Maybe if you’d stayed where you were supposed to be, you would know!”

The line went dead, leaving Victor alone again in Hasetsu’s silence. He pocketed the phone, and shivered, while stars winked into view overhead.

Oh. He’d forgotten to check in about Yurio. No matter. He could call again later.

Much later.

Yu-Topia shone like the door to paradise with its many-colored lights and massive trees framing the gate. The old-fashioned lanterns cast a glow over Hiroko’s gardens and the overhead sign. The stone driveway thudded softly under his shoes, like the cobblestone streets in St. Petersburg’s historical district, and even from here the hot springs warmed the air.

He removed his shoes by the door, as Japanese people did, and smiled at the enormous banner hung over the lounge. “Something something, Yuuri,” if he read the kanji right. Probably “Congratulations.”

“Makkachin! I’m back!”

No response. That was odd. Usually, she would come running straight toward him.

He called her name again as he wandered around the house. There was no Makkachin to be found in the lounge, kitchen, or Victor’s room. As he searched, his frown deepened. She was never this quiet unless she was causing mischief.

He looked up and down the hall, and spotted Yuuri’s door hanging ajar. Aha. There.

Victor pushed open the door. His poodle was nowhere on the floor, but he lifted his gaze, and there—

“Makkachin, no!”

All over the bed lay the torn remnants of Yuuri’s horrible sweater, and sitting in the middle, tail thumping, was Makkachin.


	3. The Cover-Up

Yuuri’s bed looked like an ax murderer had guest-starred on _Sesame Street_. Scraps of red, blue, black, white, ginger, and puce lay strewn all over the sheets. One wooly eye stared unblinking up at Victor, while the other had disintegrated into yarn and dog spit. The clown’s red hair frayed into a fine dust on the pillow. In the wrong light, he would have mistaken it for blood.

“Makkachin, Makkachin,” Victor whispered, shaking his head, “what have you done?”

Makkachin barked, covered in the yarny viscera of her kill, looking extremely pleased with herself. And to be fair, he would praise her to bits for destroying the ghastly thing, and it was probably cursed anyway, except. Except that this was Yuuri’s sweater, made by Yuuri’s mom.

Yuuri was going to be furious.

Victor snatched up as many of the yarn scraps as he could, tucking them into his arms, flailing when some pieces disintegrated further and fell to the floor. Why, why, why had he left the sweater within Makkachin’s reach when he’d seen her toying with it before? Why did he leave her unsupervised next to something so precious to Yuuri? Why did this have to happen on the same night he insulted the sweater, Yuuri’s taste, and the hard work of Yuuri’s _mother_?

This was not happening. It could not _be_ happening. Victor Nikiforov did not make mistakes like this, didn’t have accidents like this. He’d been called selfish, yes, and irresponsible. But this was not like him.

He picked through the yarn scraps in his arms, and a pained noise bubbled up from his throat.

Six weeks. Six weeks Victor had been here, hopelessly guessing what Yuuri wanted from him, trying every approach he could think of. Did Yuuri want Victor Nikiforov, the fun and flirty celebrity? Victor Nikiforov, the hardworking skater? The coach? The businessman? The amusingly clueless foreigner?

Did he even want Victor here at all?

The Eros performance today pointed to “Yes!” But it didn’t erase how reticent Yuuri had been before. If he found out what Victor had done to his mother’s gift—

Victor gasped. _If._

He bolted to his room, Makkachin on his heels, and dumped the slobbery yarn-guts onto his bed. More strands fell out, littering the floor. Victor picked them up, deposited them on the ex-sweater with a shudder, and turned to the statue in the corner of the room.

“Tchaikovsky, you are a lifesaver.”

Decades ago, after his mother made the mistake of taking Victor to see __The_ _ _Nutcracker,_ she’d given him a life-size bust of a musician, and he’d named it Tchaikovsky. It was actually a bust of Freddie Mercury, but seven year old Victor hadn’t known that. His mother had meant it as a gag gift. No one expected him to keep it after all this time.

But then, no one else had tried to unscrew the base of the statue, and discovered it was hollow.

Out of Tchaikovsky, Victor removed the last pictures he had of his mother, and stuffed the ex-sweater in their place. The big pieces went first, then the scraps, then the tiny worms of yarn that had slithered away from the rest. He retraced his steps back to Yuuri’s room, picking up all the pieces he could find.

Between Victor, the Katsuki family and the onsen business, Yu-Topia was usually a hubbub of noise and color. Now, it was empty and quiet. The walls around him seemed fuzzy. Perhaps he had crashed into bed an hour ago and was having a bad dream. He’d wake up tomorrow and the sweater would be fine, he wouldn’t be an idiot who destroyed something Yuuri loved, and he wouldn’t be waiting for Yuuri to find out and decide Victor wasn’t worth it after all.

He shook himself. “Don’t be stupid, Victor. You’re fine. It’s all fine. It’s just a stupid sweater, everything else has been great today, and it will be __fine__ _.”_

“I’m home!”

Victor snapped back to reality. Yuuri was here.

Victor collected the last remnants of red from Yuuri’s blanket, shoved them in his pocket, and strolled back out of the room as if nothing had happened. Nothing _had_ happened, as long as no one found out. He took a deep breath, put his smile back on, and called, “Welcome back!”

Yuuri met him in the hall, cheeks flushed from the cold, and stopped a few feet away.

“Um, hi?”

Victor nodded to him. “Had enough fun for one night?”

“I was worried about...” He trailed off, and his fingers curled in the hem of his shirt. “I noticed you left early.”

“Makkachin needed a walk.”

As if on cue, the culprit herself bounded out of Yuuri’s room and trotted up to Yuuri, tail wagging. Yuuri reached down to pet her.

“Oh. Of course. I just thought...”

“Yes?”

Yuuri looked up at him, half-bent over Makkachin, as if searching Victor’s face. Victor smiled back at him. Yuuri glanced away.

“I thought, maybe I should apologize.”

Only twenty years of camera practice kept Victor’s face steady. “Apologize for what?”

“For not inviting you to the table, at Minako's bar. I wanted to, but everyone kept talking to me, and I couldn't...”

Victor waved that away. “It's fine. You're the one who won. Of course you were surrounded by people tonight.”

Yuuri let out a breath, and his shoulders loosened. He reached into his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and held it in both hands.

“I reread the contract. You weren’t trying to...I couldn’t believe how much it was, but the math adds up.”

Ah, they were back on familiar ground. It was about the payment for Yuuri’s performance. Victor’s smile softened.

“You’re a Grand Prix Finalist. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Yuuri turned the envelope over in his hands, as if he couldn’t accept it was his.

“If it makes any difference,” Victor said, “Yurio got the same, and I did quite well for myself, too. I don’t work for free either.”

Yuuri blinked at him, then chuckled.

“You know, that does make me feel better.” He made a slight bow. “It was good working with you.”

“Was?”

Yuuri looked away, but not before Victor spotted a pleased little smile. The sight of it chased away Victor’s headache and spread a warm feeling in his chest.

 _“Will_ be, sorry. I’ll see you at the rink at nine tomorrow?”

Victor beamed. “It’s a date.”

Yuuri blushed at that, another wonderful sight, and said goodnight before scurrying past Victor to his room. Victor watched him go, shoulders tense again. The seconds ticked by. All he heard was the rustling of Yuuri going to bed. The light under his door flicked out, and Victor let out a breath, slumping against the wall.

He lay in bed that night, Makkachin curled around him. Despite the long day and late hour, sleep did not come easily.

If someone destroyed Tchaikovsky, or his family pictures, Victor would never speak to that person again. When his assigned guardian had sold some of Victor’s mother’s jewelry to help pay for skating costs, the betrayal stung too much to even look at him. Only her wedding ring had been saved.

Victor had never wanted to be at fault in a scenario like that.

“You’re fine,” he whispered. “He doesn’t know. It’s fine.”

And, as long as Yuuri never found out, it would be.

The minutes ticked by, slow and agonizing, but whenever Victor closed his eyes he saw snarling clowns, and Yuuri turning away. It was a silly thing to worry about. No one knew about Tchaikovsky’s secret, much less to look for a sweater in there. Nobody would ever know.

But Victor knew. And when Yuuri’s face fell because his beloved sweater was missing, and Hiroko sighed at the loss of months of work, Victor would be responsible. He would have let them down.

If there was one thing that Victor Nikiforov _never_ did, it was let people down. If he got the sweater replaced, he could wait till Yuuri wasn't looking, sneak it in with the rest of the clothes, and Yuuri would be none the wiser.

He sat up in bed, Makkachin at his side, and turned on his laptop. Opening his web browser, he ran a search for “clown sweater.”

Victor nearly threw the laptop off the bed. Stupid. What made him think googling _that_ in the dead of night was a good idea? He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and over his head, and reopened the web page, periodically glancing at the dark room around him, just in case.

No luck. Even if he braved the depths of Google Image Search, nothing on the internet came close to the abomination Yuuri owned.

The good news, the internet told him, was that most forms of damaged knitting could be repaired. The bad news was that most such services only did minor alterations. For havoc of Makkachin’s caliber, he needed a serious knitting expert.

His eyes slid back towards Tchaikovsky, and he shuddered. He could hardly believe he was planning to get the accursed thing fixed, and _voluntarily_. If this were a horror movie, he’d be so dead.

No. This was Hiroko Katsuki’s hard work, and he shouldn’t insult it. He shook himself.

Minako had been knitting at her bar, hadn’t she? Her hands flew over the needles without even looking. But Minako “Body Bag” Okukawa had all but threatened him if he let Yuuri down, and she was working two jobs on top of overseeing Yuuri’s cross-training. Even if he offered to pay for her time, he’d probably find out the hard way how sharp those needles were.

So, he needed to find another knitter. The local search results for _find a knitter_ brought up a yarn store in Fukuoka, but its website was solely in Japanese, so he couldn’t guess if they offered repair services too. Even if they did, his Japanese was too limited to explain what he wanted. Perhaps an online community could help?

The first result for _knitting community_ looked promising: “Ravelry,” a site that claimed nearly eight million members. (Seriously? How many people liked knitting that much? What did they even talk about?) Still, it seemed as good a place to start as any, so he registered an account and logged in to the forums.

> **MakkachinsPapa** : Hi! I have a knitted sweater that has been badly damaged, and would like to hire someone to repair it. What would be a good way for me to do that?
> 
> **Frog_Princess:** Welcome MakkachinsPapa! Could you tell us a bit more about your issue? If you know how to knit, you will probably be able to fix it yourself.
> 
> **MakkachinsPapa** : Thanks Frog_Princess! I don’t know how to knit, sorry. But I would be happy to pay someone else to do so.
> 
> **PollyAmide** : Hello! Could you post a picture of the sweater?

Victor turned on a lamp, wincing at the brightness. He took the sweater out of Tchaikovsky, and grimaced as a few more of its wormy strands plopped onto the floor. No combination of lighting or camera angles could make it look presentable. He uploaded the least eye-searing picture to the forum.

It took the forum members a few minutes to reply, but when they did...

> **MoHairMoProblems** : Oh sweet burger-flipping Jesus.
> 
> **PollyAmide** : It looks like it lost a fight with a velociraptor!
> 
> **MerinoAndTheDiamonds** : Oh no, I’m so sorry. I'd cry if that happened to one of my sweaters.
> 
> **2purls1nupp** : What the heck is up with that eye, though? The velociraptor was probably doing you a favor.
> 
> **MoHairMoProblems** : 2purls1nupp, don’t be mean! If he wants it fixed then clearly it must be a very special sweater. Everyone has their own tastes in clothing.

Victor let out a breath, and wrapped himself in the blanket again. Thank goodness he wasn’t the only one who saw how awful it was.

> **MakkachinsPapa** : I completely agree that it’s ugly. I would throw it out, but it belongs to a very special someone, and I want to do something nice for him.

He did not add that he, or rather his dog, was the cause of the sweater’s distressed state in the first place.

> **MoHairMoProblems** : Oh, okay. It’s kind of you to get it fixed for him.
> 
> **2purls1nupp** : See??? It’s hideous! You couldn’t pay me enough to touch that.
> 
> **MerinoAndTheDiamonds** : Are you sure your friend wouldn’t prefer a nicer sweater instead?
> 
> **MakkachinsPapa** : I know, right? I did offer to buy him something better! But this one is important to him. A different sweater won’t do.
> 
> **2purls1nupp** : Dude, I hate to break it to you but it’s beyond saving. It would take so much work to repair it, a whole new one could be made in the same time. You should probably commission a new sweater that looks like this one.

Victor leaned back, tapping his chin. Having a whole new sweater custom-made sounded expensive. He had watched his costume designers and tailors piece together his competition outfits. Creating a garment was no joke.

> **MakkachinsPapa** : Okay. I’d be happy to commission a replacement. How can I make that happen?
> 
> **PollyAmide** : Important info: What is the size of the old sweater? Or if you don’t have that, what are your friend’s measurements, and how much ease does the sweater have?

It took him a second to recall. He’d heard Yuuri’s measurements at some point when the Eros costume was being refitted for him, but he’d have to ask again. “Ease,” if he remembered right, referred to how loose or snugly an item of clothing fit.

> **MakkachinsPapa** : I don’t have that information right now, but I can get it.
> 
> **PollyAmide** : Alright. Also, for an exact replica, you’ll need the yarn brand, colorway and dye lot.
> 
> **MakkachinsPapa** : What are those?
> 
> **Whinebeck** : Is no one going to tell MakkachinsPapa about the curse?
> 
> **MakkachinsPapa** : What curse?
> 
> **Whinebeck** : The boyfriend sweater curse. If you knit a sweater for your man before you’re married, you’ll break up.
> 
> **PollyAmide** : That’s just a myth. Besides, he’s talking about a commission, not knitting it himself, so the curse doesn’t apply.

Victor snorted. How could people get superstitious about knitting, of all things?

> **Chenille Armstrong** : Have you considered the cost? Because commissioning a sweater is $$$$$
> 
> **MakkachinsPapa** : What does it usually cost?

> **Chenille Armstrong** : For an intarsia work like that, we’re talking thousands of dollars.

Thousands? _American_ dollars? Seriously?!

> **Chenille Armstrong** : That includes materials, skill and experience, plus the labor of reverse-engineering the color design and piecework, customizing it to your friend’s measurements, and months of actually knitting it.
> 
> **Chenille Armstrong** : I don’t want to scare you, it’s just that a sweater is a huge undertaking.

Victor leaned back, head thumping against the wall. Any purchase that big always made part of him wince in protest. But, to be fair, top-tier competition outfits often cost as much. That was partly why he’d had all his old ones shipped here for Hot Springs on Ice: altering them was far cheaper than making new ones, and even an expert couldn’t make something of the same quality from scratch in two weeks.

> **MakkachinsPapa** : I’m willing to pay, if the quality is good. What do colorway and dye lot mean?

He read the next set of messages, and as he did, he face fell. Yarn wasn’t _just_ yarn. He couldn’t expect that any old balls of white, black, red, blue, ginger and puce would do. Over a dozen factors made a “colorway” unique, including thickness, texture, tightness of twist, number of strands, dye method, and color combination. Even the fiber content mattered: wool felted, alpaca stretched, acrylic couldn’t be ironed.

Within the same colorway, yarn color varied for each batch, or “dye lot,” and mixing up dye lots could create color irregularities in the final project. A knitter could substitute yarn if they didn’t know the original colorway and dye lot, like Victor didn’t. But without the original yarn on hand to compare, getting a close match was almost impossible.

His headache was rapidly coming back.

> **PollyAmide** : Maybe there’s a local knitting group that can help you? Where are you, by the way?
> 
> **MakkachinsPapa** : A small town in Japan.
> 
> **PollyAmide** : That...complicates things.

Knitters, it turned out, were much scarcer in balmy Kyushu than in snowy St. Petersburg. And among people who did knit, few of them had both the time and skills to replicate the clown sweater.

The upshot of all this was that if Victor wanted to commission a replacement, he would almost certainly have to send the sweater far, far away. Which was perfectly fine. The more distance between him and those lifeless eyes, the better. There was just one problem.

No one wanted to touch the ugly thing.

Even when he broadened his search beyond the borders of Japan, the only responses he got were “What the hell?” “My parakeet hates clowns,” and “I think it would steal my soul.” All of which were completely fair, but. Come on. It wasn’t _that_ bad.

Victor glanced at the sweater again, and shivered. Okay, it really was that bad.

Another message popped up on the forum.

> **P7togTBL** : What about knitting it yourself? I bet it would mean so much more to your friend if you were the one who made it.
> 
> **MakkachinsPapa** : Me? Please. I wouldn’t even know which end of the needle to hold.
> 
> **P7togTBL** : There are only two stitches: knits and purls. If you can do those, you can knit anything.

Victor groaned. Not for fear of knitting, no. He’d sewn buttons and mended tears on his costumes plenty of times, and knitting couldn’t be much harder. But if he tried to recreate the sweater, he’d have to look at its wretched face for months.

By now it was well past midnight, and he could barely keep his eyes open. The words blurred together on the screen. He shut off his laptop, resolved to figure out a solution later, and lay back on his bed.

Someone, somewhere in southern Japan, must be the knitter he needed. Victor just had to find them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victor's statue is canon and can be seen in episode 4, when Yuuri barges into Victor's room to show him the new music for his free skate. The Tchaikovsky/Freddie Mercury bit is my own invention.
> 
> Ravelry is real, and the boyfriend sweater curse is an actual belief among some knitters. The forum members in this chapter are fictional, and unrelated to any real accounts with those usernames. Bonus points to anyone who spots all the knitting jokes.


	4. The Coach

“Victor! I have great news. The merchandise from the Hot Springs event sold out, and we’re ordering more.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You received the new poster designs too, I assume?”

“Halfway to printing.”

Victor’s steps echoed across the tile hall of Ice Castle Hasetsu. Normally he’d wait until he was in private to talk business, but he hadn’t seen a soul in the building save for Yuuko. The event team had cleaned up all the flyers, tickets and banners left during the show, leaving only posters on the walls and t-shirts behind the counter as mementos.

He sat down on one of the benches and switched to speakerphone mode. Phone beside him, he reached into his sport bag and took out his skates.

“I’ll admit it,” his agent said. “When you rushed off to Japan without warning anyone, I was...concerned. It’s not a good look for your sponsors.”

“How many of them have dropped me?”

“None, of course. I’m not an amateur.”

He grinned and removed his shoes. “Thank you, Dinara.”

Dinara was his senior agent, publicist, and the reason why the photos from the Sochi banquet never blew up the internet. He had a team back in St. Petersburg to manage his bookings, legal contracts, finances, and the general headaches that came with being famous. But it was Dinara who wielded media outlets like machetes, and kept their blades pointed safely away from Victor.

His gold-tinted skates gleamed under fluorescent lights, edges hidden under his skate guards. By the time Yuuri arrived, Victor would already be warmed up. He wouldn’t waste a second of their first one-on-one skating session.

“Besides,” Dinara said, “the Grand Prix assignments won’t even come out for a few weeks. You have time to wrap things up over there before you start preparing for next season.”

The blade of his skate-guard hit the floor with a soft tap. His hands stilled over the laces.

“I’m taking next season off, remember?”

“You are? Why?”

“To coach Yuuri Katsuki.”

Dinara burst out laughing.

“Oh, Victor. Promise me you won’t _coach_ him the night before your competitions.”

“I’m serious.”

His voice was quiet, but it echoed in the silent lobby. He tied his laces into loops.

Dinara tsk’d. “You’re kidding me. You did _not_ fly halfway across the world and quit your career for a booty call.”

He jerked one of the knots a little too tight. With a wince, and a deep breath, he began unpicking it.

“Yuuri Katsuki,” he said, voice carefully even, “skated _Stammi Vicino_ more expressively than I did, and you and I both know it. He placed in the Grand Prix Final, and that’s while _under_ -performing. You’re right. I did not quit my career for a booty call.”

Well, not just for that. Yuuri did have a very nice booty. But Dinara didn’t need to hear that.

Victor packed up his shoes, slung his bag over his shoulder, and headed to the rinkside. He brought the phone back to his ear.

“Alright,” she said, more softly. “That was uncharitable of me. My apologies. So, you’re going to be a coach.”

The rink of Ice Castle Hasetsu was small, but in the morning, the Sun would come in through its tall windows and send pale beams glittering across the ice. At sunset, it tinted the whole building in pink and gold, and cast Yuuri’s shadow far and sharp. Victor had frozen silent when he spotted it from afar three weeks ago, not willing to break the spell.

He set his bag down by the rink door, only the hum of the air conditioning to accompany him. And Dinara, of course.

She said, “This will cost you considerably. You could make more money hosting another ice show than in an entire year of coaching fees.”

“I know.”

“The Russian Skating Federation will cut off your funds. You will lose sponsors, and opportunities for future sponsorships. You will lose many other bookings I could have arranged for you. Your career may not be able to recover from this.”

He lay his skate guards on the rink wall. “I know it’s a bad idea. I want to do this anyway.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad idea.”

Her curt tone silenced him.

“I am not going to tell you what you should or should not do. Every course of action comes with a price. The question is whether Mr. Katsuki is worth it to you, and only you can answer that.”

Worth it? Yuuri Katsuki had made Victor laugh, _really_ laugh, for the first time in years. He brought _Stammi Vicino_ to life better than Victor ever had. He was a brilliant skater and dancer, whose artistry was overlooked by a world obsessed with quad jumps.

Victor tightened his grip on the rink wall, and checked the time. Yuuri would be arriving any minute.

“Dinara. I know it’s sudden, and I realize how jarring this must have been for you and your colleagues. I’m sorry about that. And yet.”

And yet, he felt more alive in Hasetsu, than he had for the last five years in Russia.

She sighed. “Alright. Keep me and the rest of the team updated about your plans, and we’ll roll with it.”

“Thank you, Dinara.”

Dinara was quiet for a few moments, and in the background, he could hear her flipping through papers.

“This isn’t just about the pole-dancing, is it?”

He chuckled. “I’m not quite that shallow. I really do believe he can win the Grand Prix. That he deserves to win. But if he wants to show me some new techniques, I will not complain.”

“New techniques. Is that what they’re calling it now? Have fun in Japan, but not too much fun, okay?”

“I am a mature and responsible adult.”

“Your Instagram profile picture is Makkachin wearing your _Stammi Vicino_ costume.”

“I couldn’t help it. Her cuteness was too powerful.”

“Sure, Victor.” Dinara snorted. “But really, keep us in the loop. The photographers nearly had a heart attack when you canceled Vienna.”

“Sorry about that. Will do. Thanks again.”

They ended the call, and Victor looked over his shoulder towards the front door. The rink was still regrettably devoid of Yuuris, and it was past time for training to start. No matter. Victor could use this time to warm up, and to get his thoughts in order.

The “warm up” turned into a good half hour of skating alone.

Yesterday, although it hadn’t gone entirely smoothly—he still hadn't found a knitter for that awful sweater—he had at least felt assured that Yuuri did, indeed, want Victor as his coach. That Eros routine, that _passion_ could not have been faked. After weeks of Yuuri averting his eyes and evading Victor’s questions, it seemed like they were finally on the same page.

But now, with the clock ticking by and Yuuri nowhere to be seen, for a training session they had agreed on...It made the old doubts come creeping back. How much did Yuuri actually value him? Without Yurio’s presence to provide a challenge, would they just go back to that strange gray area?

Victor etched lazy spirals onto the ice. A year ago, he would have been thrilled to have an entire ice rink to himself. And such a peaceful one, too. He didn’t have to share the ice with younger skaters gawking at him with autograph books at the ready, or force himself to focus while Yakov and Yurio sniped at each other. No reporters waited rinkside to catch videos of him if he fell. Here it was just him, the ice, and beams of sunlight streaming through tall windows. Occasionally, the shadow of a seagull flitted by overhead.

It would have been perfect, if he had been skating for himself. But now...

The door to the lobby slammed open.

“I’m sorry!”

Victor lifted his head, but didn’t glance back immediately. Speak of the devil, as they said.

Yuuri ran forward, and made a soft “Oof” as he hit the rink wall.

“I overslept,” he panted.

Victor turned his smile back on, and looked over his shoulder.

“Hello, Yuuri. Only Aeroflot has kept me waiting as long as you have.”

Yuuri groaned something in Japanese, and put on his skates.

Yesterday’s Eros performance had been masterful. Or at least, as masterful as any routine could be, given only a couple weeks to practice. Which was to say: there were a lot of mistakes. But the raw desire shone in every move, and Yuuri mastered more of it in two weeks than most competitors could in two months. He had done his hometown proud that day.

Today, not so much.

He flubbed a jump. He missed one of his music cues. Even the step sequence, his strongest point, made him stumble. All the while, his eyes kept flicking back to Victor, never head-on, and darted away when Victor’s eyes met his.

Victor studied his motions, tapping his cheek. Yuuri’s body was incredibly expressive of his inner feelings, for both good and ill. Where yesterday had been a masterwork of passion, today was a study in nerves, withdrawal...and embarrassment. Aha.

“Yuuri.”

Yuuri jerked up from the middle of a turn. “Yes?”

“I’m not upset that you overslept. Resting is part of work, too.”

Yuuri nodded, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased. “Right.”

He improved after that. Not to the same level as yesterday, but his movements were smoother, and he looked Victor in the eye when he spoke. Even so, a few minutes later, he flubbed a triple axel that should have been easy for him.

Victor tapped his chin. After the Sochi banquet, he had watched as many of Yuuri’s competitions as he could find. Yuuri’s ability to portray nuanced and compelling emotions set him apart from other skaters, and gave him one of the highest program component score (PCS) averages in the world. But he couldn’t turn it off. If he was feeling worried, or self-conscious, he’d miss jumps and turns that he’d executed perfectly in previous competitions.

Victor watched him for a few seconds more. Every so often, Yuuri would glance over at him mid-step, distracted. If he was distracted, what could un-distract him?

 _Focus, Vitya!_ Yakov always said. _You picked a theme. Show it to me. Pour your heart onto the ice._

Ah, but of course.

“Yuuri!” Victor called, as Yuuri led in to a quad toe loop. “Think of your Eros! The sweet taste of meat in your mouth!”

Yuuri fell flat on his face.

* * *

“Ciao ciao, Celestino. It’s been a while.”

Victor hung his towels on the onsen rack, and listened to Yuuri with his ears pricked. He frowned at his hand mirror. The humidity in Yu-Topia’s locker room always turned his hair into a mess.

Despite Victor’s best efforts, Yuuri hadn’t been able to relax all through training. But when Victor had asked what was wrong, Yuuri waved it off, insisting that he was fine. So Victor had called off practice early to talk things through in the onsen.

A dip in the hot springs was usually more than enough to ease Yuuri’s worries, but the deer-in-headlights look came back when Victor brought up the free program. Specifically, the number of quad jumps in it. Yuuri’s PCS was so absurdly high that if he played to his strengths, he only needed one quad to win the Grand Prix Final. He insisted on doing three.

And people accused _Victor_ of being extra.

While Victor retrieved their things, Yuuri spoke to his old coach on the phone, at Victor’s request. Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck, and bowed his head, even though Celestino wouldn’t see it.

“Sorry.”

Victor glanced over his shoulder. He’d met Celestino in Sochi, when the man lifted a half-naked Yuuri off of Victor, apologized for his student, and Victor had eloquently responded with “Buh?” (It had been very inconsiderate. Victor wasn’t even _done_ getting groped yet.) But perhaps Celestino could give Victor a better idea of how to work with Yuuri?

Victor sat down beside Yuuri on the bench, and tapped Yuuri’s shoulder. He mimed a phone with his hand. Yuuri nodded, and switched to speaker-phone mode, in time for the end of Celestino’s sentence.

“—are you apologizing?”

“Ciao ciao, Celestino!” Victor said. “I’m Yuuri’s new coach, Victor!”

The phone went silent. When Celestino finally spoke, it was in a low tone.

“You’re playing at being a coach in Japan?”

Beside Victor, Yuuri’s shoulders hunched, and his eyes darted to Victor’s face.

Celestino scoffed. “Cut it out already.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows knit together, and his knuckles went white around the phone, but Victor’s smile didn’t waver. Celestino's words were nothing compared to the tabloids in Russia. Besides, there was something more important on Victor’s mind.

For an artistic skater like Yuuri, the simplest way to improve PCS would be to skate a program he felt genuine passion for, with music of his choosing. But for some bizarre reason, Yuuri’s previous coaches had always picked it instead.

He pried the phone from Yuuri’s hands. “Why didn’t you let Yuuri choose his program music?”

That is what Victor said out loud. What he wanted to say was: “Why didn’t you let the most musical skater of our era express himself to the fullest?”

Celestino hummed. “I usually choose music for my skaters, but I also let them choose if they want. Yuuri only brought me a piece once.”

Yuuri winced at that, hands in his lap and eyes on the floor. Victor could guess how well that incident had gone.

“He never had confidence in himself,” Celestino said, and the phone line rattled with a sigh. “I told him time and again to trust himself more.”

Yuuri’s hands twisted in the folds of his pants. He glanced at the phone from the corner of his eye.

“Okay,” Victor said, and nodded to Yuuri. “Thanks.”

He handed the phone back to Yuuri, then sat back, knuckles under his chin. First Dinara, now Celestino? Was it so hard to believe Victor was serious about coaching? Even Yakov had dismissed it to the press a few weeks ago, and he’d _seen_ Victor assisting his younger rinkmates during practice.

No, no, no. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that Yuuri had ideas for routines, but hadn’t shared them with Victor for some reason.

The phone beeped as Yuuri ended the call.

“Ah,” he sighed, tension draining from his shoulders. “I’m so relieved. I couldn’t bring myself to contact him for so long.”

Victor leaned over. “Yuuri...”

Yuuri stiffened again. His eyes went wide and he leaned back.

“Could I hear this music he mentioned?” Victor asked. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? I’m your coach, aren’t I?”

He might not know what else he was to Yuuri, but he was pretty darn sure of _that_.

“Right,” Yuuri mumbled, face reddening. “Sorry.”

Unfortunately, when Yuuri brought the music in to their next training session, Victor had to agree with Celestino. The melody wasn’t bad, but a skater of Yuuri’s caliber deserved better.

“Think of other possibilities,” Victor said. “Find something that truly speaks to you.”

Yuuri nodded, made no further suggestions, and sat down to put on his skates. As they went through warm-ups and jump practice for that day, Victor found himself thinking about more than just the routine.

Yuuri had allowed Celestino to choose his music. To let his coach speak _for_ him. If Yakov had tried that, Victor would have fired him in a moment. Victor’s routines were his voice, the deepest expression of himself. He had even commissioned _Stammi Vicino_ when existing works didn’t satisfy him. It meant so much more to have a piece made especially for him.

Perhaps that was why Yuuri treasured the horrible sweater so much, too?

No, now wasn't the time for that. Victor had to focus. He kept his attention on Yuuri for all of their session, like a real coach, thank you very much. But when they finished, he checked the knitting forum again on his phone. He scrolled back to one of the old messages.

> **P7togTBL** : What about knitting it yourself?

Celestino had said, “I told him time and again to trust himself more.” _Him_ meaning Yuuri. Of course, Celestino had said that right after implying Victor was a flake and telling him to give up. Because Victor Nikiforov never doubted himself, right?

But wasn’t that exactly what he’d done with the sweater? He’d taken one look at it and refused, because its creepy face made him uncomfortable. Just like Yuuri underestimated his ability to skate. But if Yuuri could get on the ice and perform for thousands of people despite his fears, Victor could darn well endure looking at a clown.

Victor’s lips curved into a smile. Reporters had asked him why he doubled his workload every season by choreographing his routines, when he could pay someone to do it instead. They didn’t understand. If you wanted something done right, you _had_ to do it yourself.

Besides, it was only knits and purls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making an intarsia sweater as your first knitting project is like reading "War and Peace" as your first book. Fortunately for us, Victor doesn't know that. No knowledge of knitting is needed to enjoy this story.
> 
> Dinara will only appear in a couple more scenes. I needed a professional contact from Victor's old lifestyle to contrast with his life in Hasetsu.


	5. The Yarn

“Vicchan? You’re going out today?”

Hiroko paused from arranging the brochures for Yu-Topia’s summer display. She tilted her head at Victor from behind the counter. He smiled.

“I have some shopping to do. Would you like me to get you anything in Fukuoka?”

“No, no, that’s alright. It’s sweet of you to ask.”

Yuuri looked out from the lounge, where he and Mari were replacing the lights.

“What’s in Fukuoka?”

“A certain hair product not sold in stores here. I’m afraid we can’t all be as effortlessly beautiful as you are.”

Yuuri went bright red and hid his face at that. Mari rolled her eyes.

“Do you,” Yuuri said, then gulped and started again. “Do you need a driver, or...”

“No need. I’ll take the train. It’s your day off, after all.”

Before he left, he checked himself in his pocket mirror one last time. Hair. Make-up. Designer clothing, not one thread out of place. Not one thing the internet could tear into if his picture got posted online. Victor cocked his head, and gave his reflection a movie-star smile. He was ready to see Japan.

The Ravelry knitters hadn’t been kidding: knitting was a winter activity here, and in mid-May, many craft stores didn’t even try to sell yarn. He could have ordered it online. But color became distorted in between cameras, filters and computer monitors. With no dedicated yarn shop in Hasetsu, he had to hop on the train to a larger city to find the nearest one available. He brought with him a remnant of the horrible sweater. More pieces of it had frayed and fallen off, but one scrap was small enough to keep in his pocket.

Victor glanced at the other people on the train. Apart from Minako, he had never seen someone knitting in Japan. In Russia, he could usually spot it somewhere: on the bus, in a waiting room, in a park, in line at the bank.

The heat made his clothes stick to his skin, but it wasn’t difficult to find his way around. Although everything was in Japanese, by now he’d learned enough of the signs to get where he needed to go.

“Excuse me, good sir!”

A young woman approached him soon after he left the station. Her friends giggled and whispered to each other a few feet away.

“You’re my hero,” she said in Japanese. “Please take a selfie with me?”

Victor beamed at her. He didn’t know much of the language, but he had prepared for this much. Who would he be, to neglect his fans?

“Of course. What’s your name?”

“Ah, he asked me for my name! I’m so honored!”

It took a good five minutes of gestures and Instagram filters before they had all posted happy pictures of the encounter, and the women scurried off. The whole time, he recited in his head the translations for sweater, yarn, knit, and other words he would need. It might prove useful when he arrived at the yarn store, in case none of the staff spoke English.

Twenty minutes and two more impromptu selfies later, he found the door to _Knit Happens_ nestled in a side street. The moment he walked inside, he froze.

The store looked like a flock of sheep had lost a fight with a Skittles factory, leaving shelves stuffed with technicolor casualties. Some of the yarns were soft, softer than anything he’d ever felt before. Some of them sparkled with glitter or beads, or swirled a dozen different colors together. In a vase, several balls were perched on sticks like a bouquet. There was yarn thicker than his thumb, and yarn so thin he could barely see it. How on earth was he supposed to find what he needed in all this?

A store clerk with a name tag reading “Chihoko” approached him. She said something in Japanese, probably asking if he needed help.

Victor smiled, and said “No thanks, I’m fine,” in the same language.

Rule number one of public relations: always _look_ like you know what you're doing. The other customers were picking yarns up, petting them, and comparing brands, so Victor strolled over to a display and did the same.

He hadn’t wandered a foreign country with the dopey stare of a tourist since he was a teenager, but here, surrounded by more colors and fibers than he thought existed, he felt it coming back. Not only was it hard to match the colors of the sample he’d brought, but the godawful puce turned out not to _be_ a single color. It was a mix of several colors stranded together, forming what knitters called a “heathered tweed,” and what everyone else called “hideous.”

Victor shuddered, and added what yarns he could to his shop basket, checking that they were the same thickness as his sample. The 100% alpaca cost a lot, but it matched perfectly, and it was irresistibly soft. He certainly wasn't going to give Yuuri something itchy.

Then he entered the next room, and almost dropped his basket.

Victor had never thought of himself as a shawl person, but by god, the beaded lace webs on the walls would make one heck of a skating costume. He stopped in front of an enormous circle of midnight blue, crystalline drops and silver embroidery forming a map of the Northern hemisphere constellations. Did someone in this store actually _make_ that? With their hands?

Chihoko raised a questioning eyebrow at him. Victor shrugged and put on his best “silly but harmless foreigner” face. She nodded, but stayed nearby, keeping half an eye on him.

He was not here to gawk at pretty, drapey things that made him want to waft like an ethereal fae creature through the night. He was here to find yarn and needles for a much less glamorous project.

Wait. Wait a second. There, on the far wall, surrounded by handmade elephants and tiny cupcakes...

Victor approached slowly and picked it up. It was so, so fluffy, and chocolatey brown. Crimped yarn curled around floppy ears and tiny feet. Two soulful eyes gazed out over a perfect button-shaped nose. Someone, crafty beyond Victor’s wildest dreams, had knitted a poodle.

Forget the shawl, this little ball of fluff and happiness was going back to Hasetsu with him.

Victor held up the mini-Makkachin—it looked just like her!—and gave Chihoko his best try at Japanese.

“How much for this one?”

She shook her head, but smiled, and quoted a much higher price than he expected. But then, this _was_ handmade, and probably a display item not meant to be sold, so fair enough. As she rang his items up on the counter, he glanced again around the store. Even after searching up and down, he hadn’t found that wretched puce, or figured out which needles to use. But if he left now, he’d never be able to recreate Yuuri’s beloved sweater.

His eyes darted back and forth. No one else seemed to be watching him. No hidden cameras, as far as he could tell, and Chihoko hadn't lit up the way people did when they knew who he was. This _probably_ wouldn't show up on the internet tomorrow. So Victor took out his scrap, steeled himself, and asked for help.

She shuddered when he showed her the sample he’d brought, and they didn’t need a common language to share a look of “Oh, dear god, why?” She brought him to a far corner of the store, and sorted through many different colors until she found a match for the puce.

Then she led him to the Wall of Needles.

Victor clutched mini-Makkachin to his chest, and stared at dozens of sharp steel and wooden rods, which ranged in size from “toothpick” to “vampire stake.” She examined his sample piece again. From that, she picked several sizes of needles off the wall, and tossed them in with the yarn. Victor flinched away, which was a perfectly rational response to someone throwing sharp metal objects at him. Chihoko merely grinned.

He paid for the yarn, needles, and mini-Makkachin, and left the store. Now came the hardest part of his trip: getting the goods back to his room without alerting any of the Katsukis to what he was doing. He put on his sunglasses, a broad-brimmed hat, and turned his shopping bag inside-out to hide the yarn store’s logo. No fans stopped him on the way back. Hopefully, no one would post a picture of him online, either.

At the entrance to Yu-Topia, he checked both sides of the gate to make sure none of the Katsukis were nearby. Then, once the coast was clear, he darted in through the courtyard, and slipped around to the back door.

“Victor.”

He froze, pasted his smile back on, and slowly turned around.

Mari. Of course. She stood half-hidden behind a palm tree, cigarette in hand, and scrutinized him with a raised eyebrow.

“Good trip?”

He held the shopping bag slightly behind him, trying not to make the gesture obvious.

“Very.”

She hummed. “Did you get the ties you were looking for?”

“Yep! I’m quite pleased with them.”

“Funny,” she said, tilting her head. “I thought you were getting hair dye.”

Victor almost said that he did not dye his hair, thank you, this was all natural—when he caught the edge in her tone. Oh. This was...difficult. He kept his body language open.

“I changed my mind.”

Mari watched him for a few moments more. A bit of ash dropped onto the ground.

“Next time,” she said, “lie better.”

Victor blinked at that, and scrambled for something to say, but she was already stubbing out her cigarette and going back inside. He watched her leave, breath caught in his throat. His muscles didn’t start to relax until he was back in his room with the door shut behind him and the yarn in the statue.

Thank god for Tchaikovsky.

* * *

Victor arrived at Ice Castle the next morning humming the tune of Eros. He greeted Yuuko with a smile,strolled to the benches, and began putting on his skates.

“Playing at being a coach?” Ha. Celestino was in for a surprise. Victor wasn’t only here to have fun and get a boyfriend, although those were definitely on his list. No, he was here to work, and to rectify something he should have, long before: the quad race.

It kicked off when he landed the first quad flip in history. At the time, the world had been shocked. He had proven skaters could push the human body further than anyone had dared. Today, no man could reach the podium at the international level unless he had quads in his program.

But that shift came at a price. Quad jump specialists held a massive scoring advantage over otherwise phenomenal skaters whose jumps were weaker. Skaters like Yuuri Katsuki. If not for Victor and his legacy, Yuuri could have obliterated the World Championships by now.

Victor paused, hands on his laces. Could that be why Yuuri reacted so strangely to Victor’s presence? Had his professional admiration been tempered by resentment? He didn’t seem like the petty type. But then, how well did Victor really know him?

Victor shook his head, and finished tying his skates. Resentful or not, Yuuri was incredible, and he deserved more than what the skating world had given him. Helping him take gold was the least Victor could do.

As usual, Yuuri arrived a few minutes later. Today they focused on steps, turns and choreography. Yuuri had transformed the Eros routine overnight before Hot Springs on Ice, and Victor studied his movements to understand how. Yuuri was also studying him. Or at least, studying Victor’s butt. Yuuri sputtered and looked away as soon as he caught Victor’s eye, but Victor grinned. He'd have to wear these pants more often.

Yuuri moved more fluidly today, and his posture was more relaxed. In Yuuri’s previous program, Victor had found many elements of his own style, and he’d preened every time he spotted one. No, Yuuri definitely wasn’t the petty sort. But there was something else.

“Minako.”

Yuuri paused, mid-way through a turn. “What?”

“You were up late, practicing at her studio, the night before the competition.” Victor leaned forward over the rink wall. “Something changed in your performance then.”

Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck. “She helped me a lot, yeah.”

“What did she teach you?”

“It was, well...I kind of asked her how to move like a woman?”

Victor stared at him, and Yuuri went red. Not a sound could be heard except for the air-conditioning.

“Yuuri, that’s _brilliant.”_

Yuuri jerked up. “Really?”

“You were shaking in my arms before Hot Springs on Ice. But when the music started, it was like the rest of world melted away. Everything flowed together, and it was stunning. You reimagined it in a way that worked for you.”

“You really thought so?”

Victor nodded. “I did.”

“But, when I came off the ice, you had all these criticisms?”

“Of course I criticized it, I'm your coach. I watched all your ISU competitions. You're _always_ stunning.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened, and his hand rose to his chest. Victor’s fingers tightened on the rink barrier. Had that been too much? But no, Yuuri was smiling now, soft and warm and oh wait, Victor needed to focus on coaching. He straightened up.

“I also noticed you based most of your skating style on me.”

The smile vanished, replaced by the deer-in-headlights look. Oops. Victor put on camera-smile #3, his most reassuring one.

“It’s fine, I was flattered by it. But the new style you did with Eros suits you better. Don’t try to be someone else, be the best _you_ that you can be.”

“Oh, that’s...Thank you. I will.”

“Speaking of expressing yourself, have you chosen your free skate music yet?”

Yuuri bit his lip and looked down at the ice.

“It’s hard to think of ideas.”

Did Yuuri know how effective those puppy-dog eyes were? He could probably end wars by looking at people sadly. But, perhaps Victor could spin this to his advantage.

He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Try to remember something meaningful. Like when a girlfriend or boyfriend loved you.”

Yuuri startled, eyes wide and face flushing. Good.

“Oh, that’s right,” Victor mused, and tapped his cheek. “You’ve never had one of those.”

Yuuri was as red as a rose now. He mumbled something in Japanese and averted his gaze.

Victor put on his most alluring face, and cocked his head in the faux-innocent way that drove his fangirls wild.

“Maybe you should think of someone you do want. Think of what it would be like. The warmth of a hand in yours, dipping your lover in a _pas de deux_...”

Hint, hint. Just like Yuuri had dipped him back in Sochi. That night, Yuuri’s eyes sparked with joy and want, and Victor had never felt so alive.

Yuuri glanced around, at everything in the rink except for Victor. Victor leaned closer.

“Or maybe you’d prefer something more exciting. What do you think would compliment the Eros routine?”

“Um, I...”

Victor dropped his voice to a murmur. “Yes?”

“I’d like to work on my Salchow now!”

Victor blinked. A seagull squawked somewhere outside. Yuuri looked back up at Victor, fists tight and lips pressed together.

“I mean,” he said, deflating a little, “if that’s alright?”

Victor mentally shook himself. “Of course.”

Coaching. He was meant to be Victor the coach now, not Victor the would-be boyfriend. Hadn’t he been reminding himself of that? As he guided Yuuri through the quadruple Salchow again—and tried not to wince when Yuuri touched a hand down on the landing—Victor forced himself to focus.

Later. There would always be later, if Yuuri wasn’t ready now. He’d figure out what Yuuri wanted him to be in good time.

He stayed fully absorbed in skating for the rest of the session, and didn’t take his coach persona down until their boots were off and Yuuri was packing his backpack.

“Yuuri! Let’s go out together! There’s so much of Hasetsu I haven’t seen.”

Yuuri froze, then shoved his skates and jacket right to the bottom of his pack, zipped it up and edged toward the door. All without looking at Victor.

“Yuuri?”

“I’m busy.”

He scurried off, and slammed the door behind him.

Victor could practically hear Yakov sighing and shaking his head.

* * *

“In through the front door, around the back. Out through the window, and off jumps Jack.”

The right needle pushed into the loop, and Victor wrapped the yarn around it. He squinted at the pitiful line of loops on his left needle. Was he supposed to wrap clockwise or counter-clockwise? He frowned, tongue poking out of his mouth as he undid the stitch.

Starting with the black yarn had been a mistake. Once the sun had set, he had only artificial light to see by, and even with all his lamps on he couldn’t tell where one stitch ended and the next began. He might as well have been knitting worms. Makkachin lay beside him on the bed, his legs blocking her from the yarn ball (“skein”?) she was overly interested in. On his knees sat the closest thing Victor could get to a knitting tutor in this town: his laptop.

He rewound the internet video thirty seconds back, put in his earbuds, and watched the woman demonstrate the knit stitch again.

“In through the front door,” she said, and poked the right needle into a loop on the left needle.

Victor turned back to his hands and mimicked the motion.

“Around the back,” she continued. “Out through the—”

“Wait, wait,” Victor whispered. By the time he could hold the needles steady enough to look at the screen, she was three steps ahead.

He rewound again. This time, he watched the whole sequence through.

“In through the front door, around the back,”—counterclockwise, she wrapped the yarn around the right needle _counterclockwise_!—“Out through the window”—pulled the right needle back out of the loop—“and off jumps Jack!”

Victor did not know who Jack was, but he sorely hoped that Jack jumped himself right off a cliff.

It wasn’t that Victor was clumsy. Figure skating had made him strong, ballet had made him graceful, and the public eye had made him poised. Even his handwriting was precise, with not a stroke out of place. But sitting alone quietly in his room, with a pair of sticks and string...

He re-tensioned the yarn, fumbled one of the needles, and it leapt off him and rolled under his bed.

Here, he had all the dexterity of a drunk toddler.

No. Even less than that. He’d found videos of parents teaching their five year olds to knit. The five year olds could already knit better than Victor did.

He sighed, got down on his hands and knees, and peeked under the bed. Makkachin, bless her useless furry heart, jumped down with him and licked him in the face.

“Makkachin,” he said, nudging her out of the way, “I love you, but now is not the time.”

Makkachin whined and tilted her head at him. She was lucky to be so cute.

He grabbed the needle and reseated himself before it could scurry off, ignoring the growing cramp in his hand. No five year old was going to beat _him._

The stitches had slithered off the other needle while he’d left them on the sheets, and he groaned. Great. Now he had to restart all of his work. He had “cast on,” as knitters called it, at least ten times this evening, and still needed to watch a video guide every time.

Victor could have sworn the needles didn’t like him. Maybe he had offended them when he tried to hold them in a V shape like in cartoons, and the stitches had jumped off and collapsed into a mass of black spaghetti. Or perhaps he had bought the one skein in the store that remembered being an alpaca, and now rebelled against what humans had done to it. Whatever it was, he knew one thing for certain: those people who claimed to knit for stress relief were dirty, filthy liars.

The strand squirmed out of his hand again. Alpaca yarn was amazingly soft, but that also made it slippery. How was he supposed to hold onto the yarn strand, the fabric below it, and one needle in each hand, all at the same time? It looked so docile in the video.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Yuuri had started avoiding him.

Over the past week, Victor hadn’t managed to spend any time with Yuuri outside of training, and not for lack of trying. But these days, Yuuri always claimed to be tired, or that he had a headache, or said “Maybe later.” No onsen time together anymore. No exploring the town together. Victor had even tried asking for a sleepover again, though it was a long shot, hoping to get _some_ reaction out of Yuuri. Yuuri had shut the door in his face without a word.

Victor’s hands clenched around the needles, and pulled the yarn tight. The stitches shrunk to half their intended size.

People needed space sometimes. Victor could respect that. But for Yuuri to consistently reject any chance for them to be together, outside of the bare minimum required...Well, he hadn’t done that before. What had changed? Had Victor done something wrong?

_“He’ll never be anyone’s coach!”_

Victor had seen Yakov’s interview, yes. He knew exactly what his old coach had said about Victor’s departure. But no, that didn't matter. Focus, Victor.

He tried to poke the needle into the next stitch, but the yarn had coiled so tight the needle wouldn’t even fit. The stitches clung to the metal and refused to loosen.

Victor sighed. Great, he had to start over. Again. With a wince, and a sharp tug, he pulled the stitches off the needles and let the pitiful square of knit stitches fall into his lap.

Or at least, it was supposed to be a square. The knitting tutorials said so. Victor’s looked more like a trapezoid that had gotten mugged in a dark alley. He pried the stitches apart. The yarn flopped and fell apart on the bed, deceptively innocent-looking. Victor massaged the sore muscles in his hands, and glared at it.

_“You’re playing at being a coach in Japan?”_

His wrists ached in ways he didn’t know they could, and he’d developed pangs in his neck, back and shoulders that he was too young to feel as a twenty-seven year old. None of the videos had warned him knitting could hurt.

_“Cut it out already.”_

Victor wound the yarn back onto its ball, breathing deeply and thinking of all the people who’d told him the quad flip was impossible. He thought of Yuuri picking himself up again, after a disastrous season. He thought of Hiroko, knitting her love into every stitch, for when she couldn’t be with her son in person.

Victor rubbed his wrist, and picked the needles up again.

He cast on once more, and sent Jack in. In through the front door, around the back. Victor pulled loops through other loops for what felt like hours, until his back protested too loudly, and he knew he’d regret it at practice if he didn’t stop. He tossed the lumpy, misbegotten knitting onto his pillow, then pulled the old sweater out of Tchaikovsky. Makkachin perked up. Victor sent her a look, and she huffed and jumped off the bed. He spread the sweater across the sheets.

The clown face was as creepy as ever, but compared to Victor’s attempt, the stitches in Hiroko’s work were remarkably neat. They were neither stiff and knotty, like Victor’s stitches when he was upset, nor loose and floppy. The seams ran straight and even down the sweater’s sides, and though moths had gotten to it even before Makkachin had, the fabric itself was surprisingly sturdy. Even now, after everything it had endured, he could make out the design clearly.

Victor brushed his fingers over one of the sleeves. He had to admit it. This might be the ugliest garment he’d ever seen, but Hiroko was incredibly—

“Victor Nikiforov.”

The voice was low, icily calm, and far too familiar.

Victor startled, and jerked his hand away. He tried to school his face back into its usual guileless smile, but only managed to grimace. But if his ears were right, that wouldn’t matter anyway.

He slowly straightened up, turned around, and met the gaze of the person in the doorway.

“Hello, Mari.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to make your own constellation shawl or mini-Makkachin, you can find the real patterns for these on Ravelry: [Celestarium](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/celestarium), [Makkachin tissue box (crochet)](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/makkachin-tissue-box)


	6. The Rat

Mari stepped into the room, face blank, and shut the door behind her with a click.

“I can explain,” Victor said.

She shook her head. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Victor was about to say something, he wasn’t sure what, just something. But she raised a finger, stepped up to the bed, and stared down at the ripped sweater. As the seconds ticked by, her hands tightened into fists.

“It was an accident,” Victor said. “Yuuri left it out, and Makkachin—”

“Nikiforov.”

It wasn’t a yell. It wasn’t even as loud as Mari usually spoke. Her voice was scarcely above a whisper, like the rustle of a viper through grass. Victor shut up.

She raised her eyes to his. “I shouldn’t be surprised, should I?”

Victor raised a hand, then let it drop. “What?”

“Mom made that, you know.”

He winced. “Yuuri told me.”

“She made it,” Mari continued, “over the course of six months. Every moment she wasn’t running the onsen, or paying bills, or making dinner, or taking care of Yuuri and me, she was knitting. She took it with her on dog walks, on car trips, every spare moment she got. Yuuri wore it all the time.”

Victor held his hands behind his back, and looked away.

Mari’s voice rose, barely above a murmur. “It’s the only one like it that ever existed.”

“I’m sorry, Mari.”

She laughed, once, and bitter.

“You’re sorry,” she repeated. Then, more loudly, “And how am I supposed to believe that?”

He blinked and stepped back. She stepped forward, face twisting into a frown.

Victor swallowed, eyes darting around the room, then his face lit up when he spotted the yarn and needles on his pillow. He held them up.

“I’m going to fix it. Replace it. It will look just like the old one, Yuuri won’t even have to know.”

“Just like you fixed your broken promise to Yurio?”

Victor’s eyes widened, and the needles felt cold in his hands.

“What about Yurio...?”

“He was a child!” she snapped. “He _is_ a child, and he looks up to you!”

Her eyes darted to the thin walls, then back to Victor.

Victor’s shoulders hunched up, and he held the yarn and needles up to his chest.

“Um,” he said, all his media skills deserting him.

Mari’s frown deepened into a glare. “You promised him you’d make him a short program, then jetted off to Japan without telling him where you were or what happened to you. Without any sign that you even cared.”

“But I did choreograph his—”

“Sure, after he flew across the globe all by himself, a fifteen year old child, into a foreign country where he didn’t speak the language or know anyone, and anything could have happened to him!”

The words knocked the breath from his lungs. She couldn’t have hit him harder if she’d used a baseball bat.

“Alright,” he said. “I made a mistake. That’s fair. But what does this have to do with Yuuri?”

Standing six inches shorter didn’t stop her from looking down her nose at him.

“If that's how you treat a rinkmate you've known for years, why should I expect you to treat my little brother any better?”

Oh. _Oh._ That sounded...incredibly bad.

Victor opened his mouth, realized he had no clue how to defend himself, then shut it again.

Her glare deepened, and she set one hand on her hip.

“Yurio flew across the world for you. He chose to sleep in a closet because he wanted to be close to you. He accused you of replacing him with Yuuri. And he spent most of his time here begging you to come home.”

Victor’s heart twinged. It would have been nice if Mari were right, but he knew better. Yurio's demands for Victor’s time were because Victor was the five-time World Champion and an experienced choreographer, not because of personal affection.

“Of course,” she said, crossing her arms, “I’m sure it was all very amusing for you. Two boys competing for your attention! Must have felt like old times, huh, Mr. Celebrity?”

Victor clenched his jaw. He had come to Hasetsu to get _away_ from that lifestyle.

“It’s not like that.”

Mari raised her chin. “Isn’t it? Just waltz into our home, say, ‘I live here now, you can pay my coaching fees later,’ and let the family carry your stuff inside for you. Family meaning _me_ , by the way. We don’t even have overnight guests, but sure! We’ll set up a private room for you. It’s not a huge headache for us at all.”

A faint blush rose to Victor’s cheeks. “Well, about that...”

It had been a stupid mistake on his part. After all, people assumed Victor came from a wealthy background all the time. But most competitive skaters _did_ , and when Yuuri had sidled up to him at the banquet and invited him to his family’s hot spring resort, it sounded like Yuuri did, too.

Mari crossed her arms. “What about it?”

“I thought that...”

Yuuri’s shocked face from that first day in Hasetsu flitted into Victor’s mind.

_“Why are you here?”_

Yuuri hadn’t mentioned the banquet once. At first, he had acted like he didn’t even know Victor. Even when they rehearsed the Eros routine, Yuuri never brought it up. It had hurt, at first, until Victor accepted Yuuri as much shyer than he acted that night.

If Victor told Yuuri’s family about the banquet, Yuuri would be mortified.

Mari tapped her foot. “I said, what about it?”

“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

She hummed, and gave him a flat look.

Victor sighed. “I’ve caused a lot of trouble, haven’t I?”

“Are there any more Russian skaters who might invade our house soon?”

“I expect the others are glad to see me gone. And I am sorry for the inconvenience I’ve caused you.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.” Her eyes slid over to the corner of the room. “Scratch that. Not the _only_ one. Why you brought a giant statue all the way from Russia, I don’t want to know.”

Victor ran a hand through his hair. Ever since he’d lost her ring, Tchaikovsky was the only thing his mother had left him. But no way was he going to bring _that_ up.

“And what do you expect me to do about Yurio? Or Yuuri?”

“Yurio? How should I know? He’s _your_ rinkmate.” She tsk’d, and narrowed her eyes. “Yuuri is tough. You won’t break him. But if you make him cry, I might break you.”

“I won't ever give you cause to worry about that,” Victor said. “But truly, I _am_ sorry. I acted thoughtlessly, but it won't happen again.”

“Talk is cheap. You want me to believe you, you better show me you mean it. Or else I might let Yuuri know what really happened to that sweater.”

Victor paled. If Mari had been this furious to discover the handmade sweater ruined, he couldn’t imagine how Yuuri would react. Even if Yuuri still wanted him as a coach, Victor would have to kiss their fragile sort-of-friendship goodbye. Not to mention any hope of dating, which was already looking less likely by the day.

“And what would you have me do?”

Mari hummed, and looked him up and down, eyes appraising.

“You might need those hair products after all, Mr. Celebrity.”

* * *

“You want me to pull what out of the pool?”

Mari pointed at the drain of the bath. It was the biggest of the indoor pools on the men's side, and gurgled as the water level slowly drained. Victor knelt down, squinting at the bottom. At the corner of the pool, something black and messy had wound itself around the water filter.

Mari scrunched up her face. “Whatever _that_ is. I’m not touching it.”

Victor couldn’t blame her. He rolled up the sleeves of the worker robe he had changed into, and reached forward.

Mari elbowed him. “Not like that! Don’t be disgusting. We have rubber gloves and disinfectant for things like this.”

Victor winced, drawing his hand back, and barely kept his smile on.

“Right. And those are...?”

“Over there.” She gestured to the cart of cleaning supplies by the wall. “Suit up.”

Cleaning the onsen, it turned out, meant cleaning the _entire_ onsen. Both the men’s and women’s areas. The indoor pools and the outdoor ones. The men’s showers and women’s showers. Yu-Topia was a very traditional onsen, and didn’t use chlorine in case it interfered with the mineral properties of the hot springs. Instead, the Katsukis, including Yuuri, took turns scrubbing the whole onsen down every night after the customers left. Tonight had been Mari and Yuuri’s turn.

Yuuri had quickly made himself scarce when Mari gave him the night off. Two hours later, with soap suds and unidentifiable gunk all over him, Victor was starting to see why.

He pulled on a pair of gloves, and a face mask for good measure. He’d definitely need a clarifying rinse after tonight. Mari rolled her eyes.

When the water had completely drained, he stepped in, and squinted at the mass of...fur?...caught in the filter. It didn’t smell, so hopefully it wasn’t anything dead. He hunched up his shoulders, half turned away, and reached forward.

Behind him, Mari scoffed. “You’d think you’d never seen a dead animal before.”

“I hope I don’t see one anytime soon, either.”

“Please, we get stuff worse than this all the time. Bugs every day. Rats. Birds. One time I had to pull out a dead _tanuki_.”

“Did the _tanuki_ at least pay first?”

“Nah. It snuck in at night, caught its leg in the water filter and drowned.”

Victor shuddered. His fingers tapped the hairy mass, sponge-like and tangled. It didn’t feel like an animal. It also didn’t want to come off the filter any time soon, so Victor had to lean forward and pry it apart with his fingers.

“I really hope I’m not tugging on a dead thing.”

“Does it have a skeleton? Limbs?”

“No, just hair.”

“Then it’s not dead.”

Victor relaxed a little. Thank goodness for that.

She hummed. “Although, I suppose it could have come from something with mange, and the animal staggered off and died elsewhere.”

“That's not very comforting.”

“Wasn't supposed to be.”

He gave the grimy mass another yank, and got nothing but a squelching noise for his trouble.

“Whatever it is, it’s stuck in here. Could you get me scissors? Or maybe a knife?”

Mari scoffed. “Nothing in our house is worth risking for this.”

“Except me, apparently.”

“ _You_ said it, not me.”

With a couple of strong yanks and a noise that would haunt his nightmares, the curly tangle finally ripped off the filter. Victor held it up to Mari. She stepped away.

“I told you, I’m not touching that.”

“Please, it’s nothing bad.” He chuckled. “It’s a really curly toupee. I doubt it’s even real hair.”

“Yeah, you’d know all about that.”

“What do you mean?”

She raised her chin, and looked at his forehead pointedly.

Victor’s hand flew up to his hair. “This is my real color.”

Mari started tapping at her phone. “Sure, Victor. Sure.”

“My eyebrows are also silver. Who bleaches their eyebrows that light? It looks terrible whenever I do photoshoots. The image editor has to darken them.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just get out of the pool already.”

He climbed back out. “Anyway, is that all? Because that wasn’t really so bad.”

“Victor.”

“What?”

“Take off the face mask, will you? You’re not going to _inhale_ the hair.”

He raised a naturally-colored eyebrow, but did as Mari asked. Wait, why was she smirking now? And why did that give him such a feeling of dread?

“I checked in all the customers who came today,” she said. “None of them walked out bald.”

He blinked. Then he looked down at his hands, and the thing he was holding. It was definitely a wig, but it was awfully short and curly, if no one was bald, then...it must have been a wig for the _other_ hairy part of the body.

“Ewww!”

He jumped back, and hurled the wretched thing halfway across the room. It fell to the floor with a pitiful plop. There was a clicking sound, and Mari leered at him over the top of her phone.

“What’s the English for that?” she asked. “I’ve seen one like it before, but could never find the word.”

“It’s...” he coughed and looked away. “It’s called a merkin.”

“Ah, cool.”

“Cool? It’s disgusting! Who leaves that in a pool?”

“This is a bathhouse. People are filthy. I have to pick up stuff like this all the time.”

Victor cringed. “I’m sorry. That sounds awful.”

There was a knock at the door to the pools.

“All okay?” asked Yuuri’s voice. “I thought I heard a scream.”

“It's fine,” Mari called back. “Come in!”

Victor’s eyes widened. He did not need Yuuri to come in right now. At all. Not when Victor was a mess of sweat, shower grime, and cleaning fluids.

So of course Yuuri did come in, and looked between Victor and Mari with confused eyes. Then, to Victor’s horror, his gaze dropped down to the floor, where the merkin lay.

“What’s that?”

“A rat,” Victor said.

“A merkin,” Mari said at the same time.

They stared at each other. Yuuri stared at them. The merkin stared at nothing, being an inanimate object. But its presence cast a pall over the whole room.

Yuuri blinked, shook his head, and asked, “Wait, did you just say...?”

 _A merkin_ , Victor thought, mentally scrambling for an alibi. _A merkin, a merkin...A ‘Murrican..._

“American!”

Victor’s voice echoed around the onsen. Mari and Yuuri stared at him. Yuuri’s eyes were wide, and the corner of Mari’s lips started twitching.

“An American rat,” Victor said. “Mari wanted me to speak English at it.”

Yuuri’s eyes flickered to Mari. “What?”

Mari clapped her hand over her mouth.

As the Americans liked to say, go big or go home. Victor had no plans to go back to Russia yet, so going big, it was.

“She found a rat in the onsen, and wanted me to see it, because she thought it might have come in with one of the tourists. So she had me speak English and Russian at it, in case it responded to commands in those languages, and then maybe we could find its owner and send it home.”

Mari hid her face in her hands, muffling fits of noise.

“Victor,” Yuuri said, looking down at the merkin in concern, “I don’t think that...rat...could respond to much of anything.”

Victor nodded, struggling to keep a solemn face.

“Yes. It passed away this morning. It was very sad.”

Yuuri looked between them again, at Victor standing stiff with water stains all over his clothes and Mari wiping tears from her cheeks, and backed away.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll...leave you two to it, then.”

He walked out of the onsen and shut the door behind him, keeping one worried eye on them both the whole time. The moment he was gone, Mari broke into howls of laughter.

“That couldn't have gone better if I planned it,” she said between cackles. “An American rat. Oh my god.”

Victor leaned with one arm against the wall, and let out a breath. “That was too close.”

“You realize he’ll find out about it anyway?”

Victor blood chilled, and he turned to stare at her. “What?”

She held up her phone, and tapped the screen. Her voice came through the speaker.

_“I saw all of the customers who came in today. None of them walked out bald.”_

It was soon followed by Victor’s scandalized shriek.

Victor paled. “You wouldn’t.”

She dragged her finger across the screen, fast-forwarding the audio.

_“A rat.”_

_“A merkin.”_

_“American! An American rat.”_

The corner of her mouth turned up. “This would get plenty of likes on Instagram, don’t you think?”

“Mari.” He held up his hands. “Please don’t.”

“Hashtag: living-the-dream. Hashtag: sexy-Russian-pool-boy.”

Victor rubbed his forehead, wincing at the cold grime in his hair. “You know I’m gay, right?”

“And I’m asexual,” she said.

“So...why?”

“The only reason I’m not charging you rent is because you bring in more money to us than you cost.”

He blinked. Then, his eyes widened in understanding.

“But won’t this make the onsen look unclean?”

“I’ll edit it,” she said. “Besides, you’re a bigger draw than the water. Or would you rather I tell Yuuri what happened to his sweater?”

Victor hid his face in his hands. His publicist was going to _kill_ him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might not want to google "merkin" if you don't want uncomfortable images in your search history.


	7. The Mountain

Victor biked to the rink even earlier than usual the next morning, wearing sunglasses and a hat to keep the few people outside from recognizing him. Six weeks after he’d moved here, the locals had long since stopped noticing him going about his business. It had worried him at first, since less recognition meant less marketability with sponsors. But he didn’t need people to start whispering about him again. Not for _this_ reason.

As soon as he was inside the rink and out of public view, he slumped against the counter with a sigh. A giggle sounded nearby, and his head shot up.

Yuuko peaked out from between the shoe racks, hand barely hiding her smile. “Long night?”

He smiled back out of reflex. “Something like that.”

“Did you have to stay up late...catching rats?”

His fingers clenched around the elbows of his sleeves, but years of practice kept the tension off his face.

“Couldn’t have customers using the onsen without paying. Whether they have two legs or four.”

“Of course not.” She tapped the side of her nose. “It’s a good thing my daughters can’t read English.”

Oh dear god. They were on Instagram, weren’t they? They would be telling everyone at their school about it now.

Yuuko winked. “In case the girls ask, the rat went on a plane back home to America.”

Victor resisted the urge to bang his head against the counter.

For the first time in his career, he had turned off all his notifications, logged out of his accounts, and vowed to stay off the internet until people forgot about Merkingate. Or until the Earth was obliterated by a meteor. Either one would be welcome right now. But his phone buzzed anyway as he laced up his skates. And kept buzzing. When he looked at the screen, his heart dropped into his stomach.

She might be on the other side of Eurasia, but there was no escaping his publicist. He gulped, and answered the call.

“Victor.”

Her voice was flat as the ice and twice as cold. He wore his smile like a shield.

“Hello, Dinara. How are you?”

“Do you know how many companies manufacture merkins on this godforsaken planet?”

He blinked at that. “No?”

“Too many. And do you know how many of them sent me free samples?”

“Oh.” His eyes widened. “Oh _no_.”

“All of them, Victor.”

“But that’s...the video was posted yesterday. How did they send the samples so fast?”

“Because believe it or not, you’re still famous, and several hundred companies have someone stalking your social media in case of product placement opportunities. Or had you forgotten?”

He finished putting on his skates, and walked to the rinkside, lips twitching.

“There were merkin-marketers stalking my Instagram with a pile of merkins ready to go?”

Dinara was silent. He could almost hear her throwing her hands up in despair.

Victor laughed. “I’m sorry, but that’s hilarious.”

Dinara muttered something in Tatar that would make Yuri Plisetsky blush.

“Okay,” she said, “maybe it’s a little funny. But how am I supposed to explain to my wife why strangers are sending us pubic wigs?”

Victor laughed even harder. He steadied himself against the rink wall.

“Why are they sending them to you? All the other companies sent me things directly.”

“Because you obviously regarded that ‘rat’ with distaste, and I’m the one in charge of persuading you to take or decline contracts.” She sighed. “Or at least, I was, until you ran off to Japan.”

Victor bowed his head. “That...is an entirely fair point.”

“Look, if you _want_ to change your public image to something X-rated, that’s fine, I’m not going to argue. But please, let me know what you’re planning first.”

“I never meant for this to go public. A friend of mine uploaded it.”

“And you didn’t tell your ‘friend’ or Instagram to take down the video immediately, or avoid doing ridiculous things in front of an untrustworthy person in the first place, as anyone who’s been in the spotlight as long as you should’ve known.”

“Mari isn’t untrustworthy.”

Aloof, yes. As friendly as a cactus dipped in cyanide, yes. But you could trust her to stab you in the front, not the back.

Dinara made a skeptical noise, but let the matter drop.

“Promise that you’ll keep me and the rest of the team in the loop about your next wacky stunt, okay? I need to know how many assassins to hire in advance.”

“Just one. I’m not that hard to kill.”

“They’re not for you.”

Victor winced. “I _like_ the Katsukis.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re having a lovely time over there. I’m happy for you. But remember there are people counting on you at home, too.”

Were there? There was Dinara, of course, and the other people he hired. Yuri Plisetsky? No. His star would shine even brighter without Victor present. Yakov...he hadn’t answered Victor’s calls, but that didn’t mean anything. He was a busy man. There were time zone differences. It was fine.

Victor nodded. “Next time the stunts get wacky, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you.”

He laughed again, softer this time. “I was sure you were going to murder me for this.”

Dinara snorted. “Don’t be silly, I'd hire a professional for that. No, I’m shipping all the merkins to you instead.”

“What?”

“I hope you like pubic wigs.”

Visions of dear old Hiroko Katsuki opening her mail, her sweet smile turning to confusion and horror, swam before his eyes. His knuckles went white around his phone.

“Dinara, please don’t.”

“Cheer up, some of them are even your color.”

“Dinara!”

She hung up, and Victor shuddered. If he didn’t want the entire Katsuki family giving him disappointed looks, he’d have to warn Mari and endure her laughter until she agreed to help him hide the merkins from her parents. No doubt her cooperation would come with a price.

Yuuri’s sweater had better be worth all this.

He spent the next fifteen minutes warming up. Or tried to, at least. His mind kept drifting back to Mari snickering, Yuuri’s bafflement, and the disgusting squelch as the merkin hit the floor of the onsen. After stumbling on a bracket turn that should have been easy, he brushed the ice from his blades and waited by the rink boards for Yuuri.

Yuuri did not come. He had been late a few times before, but this time a full hour passed before Victor shook his head and changed back into his shoes. Was Yuuri sick? Was he unhappy with Victor? Had he seen the merkin video or not? What would he think of it?

Victor returned to Yu-Topia with a bright smile and his stomach tied in knots. According to Mari, Yuuri had never even left his room today. Victor walked up to the door, raised his hand to knock, and stopped.

Perhaps Yuuri was being shy about the social media disaster. But, honestly? He had been pulling away for some time now. Every day Victor offered ideas for things they could do, and Yuuri always said no. They only saw each other at training—and now, not even that.

Victor’s shoulders slumped, and he let his hand fall away from the door.

For lack of a better plan, he returned to his room, shut the door, and took out his knitting. It was supposed to clear the mind, wasn’t it? Victor could use some mind-clearing.

He could cast on and make the knit stitch now, although the purl stitch rebelled against him more often than not. His square was almost square-shaped, too. But it had begun curling strangely no matter how many times he pressed it flat, and something about the texture didn’t look like the examples in his videos.

Yuuri was a puzzle. Every time Victor reached forward, Yuuri stepped back. But other times, he’d catch Yuuri checking him out, or beaming at Victor’s praise. And on the ice, Yuuri would push himself harder and skate for longer than even Victor dared to try.

If Victor knew him right, this evening Yuuri would slip out of Yu-Topia after Victor had gone to bed, and practice at Ice Castle for hours. Alone. Without the man he’d asked to coach him.

If Yuuri didn’t want him, why hadn’t he let Yurio win Hot Springs on Ice?

Pain flared in Victor’s hand. He’d stabbed himself under the fingernail with a needle. Not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to make him wince if he tried to put pressure on it. He pulled the needle off, but harder than he should have, and his heart dropped into his stomach as an entire row of stitches fell off.

Victor’s throat tightened. Why did the stupid yarn have to be so uncooperative? He’d spent hours of work on that square, and now he had to start all over again.

But...not right now. Knitting required three things: yarn, needles, and the self-control not to hurl both items out the window.

He stuffed the yarn and needles back into Tchaikovsky, and began pacing back and forth. There had to be some way to fix this, but everything he had tried only seemed to make Yuuri skitter away.

“What do you think, Makka—oh.”

Makkachin had wandered out, and was lying at the door to Yuuri’s room, nose at the threshold. And, honestly? Victor was tempted to do the same. But poodles could do a lot of things Victor couldn’t, like kiss Yuuri’s face and sleep in Yuuri’s bed, and sprawl pitifully in front of Yuuri’s door without scaring the crap out of him when he came out.

So Victor went back to his room, lay mini-Makkachin on the bed, and resumed pacing.

“As I was saying, what do you think I should do, mini-Makka? Have I done something to offend Yuuri? Does he not like my coaching style?”

The stuffed poodle had no suggestions. Which, to be fair, made it about as helpful as Makkachin usually was.

“It might be about the merkin.” He grimaced. “Victor Nikiforov, figure skater, model and brand-name, loses his dignity to a stranger’s pubic wig. _I_ wouldn’t want to date me after seeing that. If Yuuri’s been following the blow-up on social media, he might not even want to be seen with me.”

He frowned at Tchaikovsky, or rather, at the yarn and ex-sweater inside.

“But what else could I have done? If he knew the full story, he might not want me here at all. _Does_ he want me here? Is there a subtle cultural cue for ‘go away’ I’m missing?”

There was a knock on his door.

Victor startled. His smile snapped back into place. “Enter!”

The door slid open, revealing Hiroko. She peered up at him over her glasses.

“Is everything alright, Vicchan?”

“It’s fine, Ms. Katsuki. Thank you.”

“I thought I heard pacing. And you’re not usually here at this time of day.”

“It’s nothing important. Don’t worry about it.”

She studied him, then clasped her hands together.

“Why don’t you come out for a bit and sit with me? It’s a slow day for business, and I could use some company.”

Victor glanced back toward Yuuri’s door, Makkachin’s nose under the crack, and at his own empty room. Nothing waited for him in there but sore hands, a sore heart, and the dismembered corpse of a sweater.

She led them to the kitchen, where a kettle, teapot and cups were already set out. His stomach sank at the sight. She’d been planning this, and that meant it was time for a “talk.” He had heard a lot of “talks” lately, and few of them were pleasant.

He stood up straight, hands behind his back, face as innocent-looking as he could make it.

Had Hiroko seen the merkin video and disapproved? Was his name bringing Yu-Topia the wrong kind of attention? Or perhaps she had noticed Yuuri’s reticence around Victor, and would tell Victor to back off?

“Help me make tea, Vicchan.”

Victor blinked. He raised his hands. “Oh. Well, alright.”

She showed him how to use the electric kettle, pot, infuser and leaves, before picking out bread to make sandwiches. Victor filled the kettle with water, and glanced at her sidelong.

“Is there something on your mind, Ms. Katsuki?”

“Please, call me Hiroko.” She lay out some cheese and sashimi. “Yuuri always talked to his dog, too.”

Victor froze while triple-checking the temperature setting.

“Sometimes,” she continued, “when he had a bad day at school or his thoughts became too much, he’d come home and talk to no one. And he’d take little Vicchan down to the beach, and they’d sit in the sand until the Sun went down.”

“Little Vicchan?”

“Our poodle. He passed away, last December. You remind me of him, too.”

“I’m sorry. Yuuri must have loved him very much.” The water heated up, and a thought struck him. “That was the month of the Grand Prix Final.”

Hiroko sliced the sashimi, a small smile on her face.

“It was the first time in a decade that a Japanese man advanced that far. I can’t tell you how proud I was. How proud our whole town _is_ of him.”

Victor nodded. The posters of Yuuri from that season, hand outstretched against cherry blossoms, still dotted every bus and train station in Hasetsu.

“I think I can imagine.”

“But when he came home,” she said, “and everyone rushed to congratulate him, to take pictures with him...Yuuri apologized for not placing higher, and hid in his room for a week.”

Victor looked up from the teapot to stare at her. His jaw hung open for a few seconds before hot water trickled over the lip and jolted his hand.

“He apologized for being one of the top six in the _world?”_

“Sometimes, where others see anthills, Yuuri sees mountains. And he needs someone to remind him, not that the mountain isn’t there, but that he can climb it.”

Victor wiped up the spill, tension easing from his shoulders. Hiroko hadn’t brought him here to scold him. Even though Yuuri had hid in his room today, she hadn’t assumed it was Victor’s fault. That was...it was nice.

They finished making the tea and sandwiches, and Hiroko sat them down in the private dining room. Victor’s eyes darted back towards the hall, and Yuuri’s door at the end of it. Hiroko followed his gaze, then poured out the tea.

“Humor an old woman a little longer, and I’ll let you go.”

“You’re not old.”

“No? That’s a pity. I rather like being old.”

Victor tilted his head, and the look on his face made her laugh.

“I used to worry,” she said, “about so many things. Yuuri gets it from me, I’m afraid. Good thing about aging is, you don’t care about other people’s opinions so much. _Kampai.”_

She raised her cup to his, in a toast wholly unlike a real tea ceremony. They drank.

Victor wrinkled his nose. “I think I messed up the tea, sorry.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“No, but I want to do it right.”

Hiroko chuckled. “You know, I can’t let Yuuri cook with me.”

“Why is that?”

“He’ll check inside the oven every five minutes because he doesn’t want to burn the roast, and then it never cooks properly. When he went to America, I fretted for two weeks about how he’d feed himself. It was silly, really.”

Victor’s lip quirked up. “You’re his mother, and he was in a foreign country. Of course you worried.”

“Exactly.” She sipped her tea again, apparently unfazed by the taste. “I’ve always thought, it must be lonely, to uproot yourself from your home and strike out in a new country. You and Yuuri are braver than I am.”

“That’s not—” He cut off. Saying it wasn’t true would downplay what Yuuri had done. “It’s Yuuri’s achievement, really. He risked his career and left behind everyone he loved to chase his dream.”

“So did you.”

He shrugged. “It was easier for me.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

He blinked at her, cup in hand, mind blank. Hiroko nibbled at a sandwich, looking innocent like Yuuri often did.

After the Sochi banquet, Victor had seriously considered Yuuri’s request. Only Yuuri’s lack of contact since then made him hesitate. When he’d come back from the World Championships to see the video Yuuri had posted, a message loud and clear, Victor had booked his flight that very same day and never looked back. Never doubted his choice to leave the city he’d lived in for his entire life.

Why had it been so easy to go?

Hiroko interrupted his thoughts. “Do you have anyone waiting for you, back in Russia?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. There’s—”

There was Yakov, who hadn’t replied to Victor’s messages. (He was a busy man.) There were Victor’s rinkmates, though he hadn’t called them since he left, nor they him. There was Dinara and the rest of his team. People he’d hired and only spoke to about work.

“Yes.” Victor sipped his tea, and it was bitter. “Of course I do.”

She listened to him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze fell to the plate of sandwiches between them, which Victor hadn’t touched. Then she settled back on her haunches, and lay her hands in her lap.

“Yuuri smiles more, now that you’re here.”

Victor perked up at that. “He does?”

“He gets out of the house. When people say hi to him, he says hello back.”

Victor lay his cup down. Half his career was built on interacting with his fans. Were these things not normal for Yuuri?

Hiroko held the plate out to him. “Vicchan?”

“Oh, right, of course.” He took one of the sandwiches. “Sorry, I was distracted.”

“Take one for Yuuri, too. He’ll be hungry.”

His eyes widened, and she handed him a napkin to wrap the sandwiches in. Twenty years ago, before her illness, his mother had done the same thing.

Wait. Where had _that_ thought come from?

“Thank you, Hiroko. I’ll make sure Yuuri eats lunch.”

Hiroko beamed at him, and stood up, taking the plate with her.

“Thank you, for listening. I have to get back to work. And so should you.”

She left him then, and down the hall he saw Makkachin, still waiting by Yuuri’s room. She perked up as he approached. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and opened the door. Yuuri peaked out at him, a caterpillar under his duvet, looking like he’d given up hope of ever becoming a butterfly. Victor put on his most comforting smile, and asked, not commanded.

“Let’s go to the beach.”

* * *

The shore of Hasetsu was strangely empty compared to St. Petersburg, even now, at the height of the tourist season. Where St. Petersburg was flat, Hasetsu’s beach was hemmed in by white cliffs on the west and a pine forest to the east. Even the air smelled different. Only the seagulls remained the same.

They said nothing as they ate. But afterward, with a full stomach and Makkachin between them, Yuuri opened up. And what he said relieved Victor’s worries and hurt his heart all at the same time.

Yuuri wasn’t upset with him. He didn’t even mention yesterday’s incident. He had withdrawn because he thought he was weak, and he feared Victor would see him that way. Because it was easier to push Victor away than to open up and risk being rejected.

That hurt. God, it hurt, to think that after everything Yuuri had accomplished, he couldn’t see himself as _enough_. As more than enough. But at least he did want some kind of relationship with Victor, if Victor could figure out what that was. The suave gentleman, the goofy scamp, the serious coach, the cheerful celebrity? None of his approaches had worked.

They had been dancing around each other long enough. So this time, Victor asked outright.

“What do you want me to be to you?”

Yuuri didn’t answer. He hugged his knees and stared out at the sea.

“A father figure?” Victor offered.

“No.”

“A friend?”

“Um...”

Victor’s heart quickened, and he kept his tone even. Maybe, just maybe...

“Your boyfriend, then. I can try my best.”

“No!” Yuuri leapt up and flailed his arms. “No, no, no, no!”

No?

Yuuri looked at him for the first time in their conversation. He leapt to his feet and clenched a fist.

“I want you to stay who you are, Victor!”

What was that supposed to mean? Yuuri wanted him to stay the same. For them to keep being whatever _this_ was. But what was _this?_

Victor's smile slipped, and Yuuri was saying something else now.

“I've always looked up to you. I ignored you because I didn't want you to see my shortcomings.”

_Oh._

Of course. Yuuri looked up to him, as one skater to another. As a student would look up to his _coach._

That was what Yuuri had asked him to be at the banquet. That was all Yuuri had _ever_ asked of him. Everything else—that had all been in Victor's head.

“I’ll make it up to you with my skating,” Yuuri said.

Or, in other words: _I’m sorry for_ _turning you down_ _._ _Can we still_ _work together_ _?_

Victor’s chest hurt. His stomach felt cold, and _No, no, no_ kept ringing in his ears. But he’d asked for an answer. Here it was. Complaining about it was pointless. With the practice from years of photoshoots behind him, he schooled the smile back onto his face, and reached out a hand.

“Okay. I won’t let you off easy, then. That’s how I’ll show my love.”

If all Yuuri wanted from Victor was a coach, Victor would be that. All the longing and admiration and hope he’d felt since that magical night in Sochi, he’d pour into their training sessions. Yuuri deserved no less.

Whatever mountain Yuuri saw, Victor would face it with him.


	8. The Fool

A half hour later, Victor hurled the embryonic stage of a sleeve against his bedroom wall. It traced a long arc of yarn through the air, and the knitting needles clattered on the floor.

How could he have been so stupid? The first time he’d seen Yuuri in this country, Yuuri had asked, “Why are you here?” The first time Victor had tried to touch him, Yuuri had scrambled back all the way across the room. He gave Yuuri a routine clearly based on Yuuri’s moves at the Sochi banquet, and Yuuri pretended the banquet never happened. He’d said his Eros was _pork bowls_ , for god’s sake!

Victor had been a fool. No, not a fool. He’d been a thoughtless, self-absorbed jerk.

He breathed, willing some of the tension out of his shoulders. It wouldn’t do to let his arms cramp up again. He retrieved the pitiful pile of string, which could only generously be called fabric, and undid all of the stitches.

It was amazing that Yuuri hadn’t kicked him out by now. Even Christophe Giacometti could tell when other men were “just not into him,” and he always respected their wishes, backing off with grace. Victor should have consulted him. Better yet, he should have contacted Phichit Chulanont, Yuuri’s friend and social media maven, gotten Yuuri’s phone number, and _talked to_ Yuuri before jumping on a plane to Japan.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He sat on the couch and started over, winding the yarn around one needle to form the first row of loops. Not too loose, or they’d fall off. Not too tight, or he wouldn’t be able to knit them. He had “cast on” so many times that he could do it pretty well now. But every time he knitted more than a row or two, he’d choke up on the needles again, and the yarn would pull so tight it would soon refuse to move at all.

It wasn’t all that different from his attempts to befriend Yuuri. Not too distant, not too forward. He’d figured out how to back off enough for Yuuri to be comfortable, but he’d inevitably get too eager and ask Yuuri about boyfriends, or sit too close to him in the onsen, or do something else that sent Yuuri skittering away.

But even Victor knew what _“No, no, no, no, no”_ meant.

He dropped a stitch halfway through a row, and winced. With a sigh, he tugged the stitches off the needles, pulled them apart, and restarted the sleeve.

He had made some progress, at least. He could at least _hold_ the yarn now. His first attempts had mimicked what he saw other Russians do, twining it around their left hands in elegant curlicues. But that made his stitches tighter than a snare drum. So he let the yarn drop. If he let it go, it would be there when he needed it.

He _had_ to let go. Of more than just the yarn.

Yuuri wanted him as a coach. That was more than Victor deserved, after the hassle he’d caused for Yuuri’s family, and how much he’d bothered Yuuri. Maybe, if he kept his feelings to himself and started acting professional—like Yakov, Celestino and Dinara kept telling him to—maybe he and Yuuri could even become friends. They could talk about skating, and dogs, right? Right.

And Victor would watch Yuuri make music with his body, watch him skate their _pas de deux_ from Sochi like that dip had never been Victor’s, like the invisible lover he embraced at the end had never been Victor. Because it hadn’t been.

He was Yuuri’s coach. Yuuri was his student. And if a part of Victor wanted something more, well...when he saw Yuuri on the podium with gold around his neck, bright and beaming like he was meant to be, his smile would be enough.

The needles seized up in his hands, and Victor looked down to find a tangled snarl of yarn that probably existed in more than three dimensions.

Oops.

* * *

The next morning, Victor hadn’t even entered the rink building when Yuuri ran up to him. Not jogged, ran. It was the earliest he’d ever seen Yuuri awake, and Yu-Topia was a thirty-minute walk away.

“Victor, please teach me all the jumps you can do!”

Victor blinked, then mentally threw his plans for today’s session out the window.

In principle, the quad flip wasn’t that different from the quad toe loop Yuuri already knew. Both were toe-pick jumps. But where the quad toe loop took off from an outside edge on the landing foot, the quad flip took off from an _inside_ edge on the _weaker_ foot. This made the flip easy to mess up, especially since it was millimeters away from the otherwise-identical Lutz jump.

Yuuri couldn’t land a quad flip. But after attempting it twenty times in a _row_ , Victor made him take a break before he shattered his knees and gave Victor a heart attack.

At their level, most male figure skaters landed between fifty and a hundred jumps per day. But even then, those jumps were interspersed with spins, step sequences, and other low-pressure moves to reduce the risk of injury. They also switched between quads, and easier triples and doubles. Attempting the same quad jump repeatedly was a recipe for bone fractures.

Yuuri sat still for two minutes before he started fidgeting and looking back at the ice.

“Did you ever land a quad loop?”

Victor shrugged, wiping ice from his skates. “I never got it clean enough for competitions. But I have the basic technique down.”

“Can you show me?”

Yuuri stood up to lean on the rink barrier, fingers tapping a rhythm only he could hear. His puppy-dog eyes were no less powerful after working out, but Victor made no move to stand.

“You’ve done half an hour of nothing but quads. Aren’t you tired?”

“I had a break.”

Victor stared. Did Yuuri run marathons as a side-hobby?

On the other hand, Victor couldn’t actually stop him from jumping quads. This was a man who would run halfway across town in the middle of the night to skate alone, in the dark, to _calm down._ He skated _Stammi Vicino,_ the toughest program Victor ever created, like it was nothing. If Victor didn’t let Yuuri quad-jump here, Yuuri would do it anyway, and he’d probably do it much more recklessly.

So Victor let Yuuri drill quads, with spins and step practice in between. He tallied the number of each kind of jump Yuuri did, and watched for signs of soreness or exhaustion. Sooner or later, Yuuri had to start slowing down, and the next day he’d wake up with his body screaming at him, and then he’d switch to practicing like a sensible person.

Thirty quads. Forty. Fifty. Mostly flips and Salchows, the ones Yuuri was most interested in, but occasionally a quad loop or quad Lutz, because apparently Yuuri’s old reliable quad toe loop was too pedestrian now.

Eighty jumps. Mostly _f_ _ailed_ jumps, too, with no injuries, but still much, much harder on the body than properly landed ones. Victor could have done it, but only because he had the muscle memory to land his quads consistently, apart from the loop. Eighty attempts at a new jump would have turned his bones into jelly.

But Yuuri passed the hundredth with no slowing down or loss of coordination to indicate he was tired. His Salchow was actually improving, and he nearly landed a clean quad flip.

Victor made him stop then, not because Yuuri was exhausted, but because Victor’s knees hurt just watching him. For all that Victor would have stood there in awe, he was a coach, and he had to watch out for Yuuri’s health even if he suspected Yuuri was some kind of skating demon from beyond the veil.

Yuuri sighed, slumped his shoulders, and slid off the ice like a kid being called off a playground. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

“Is something wrong?”

“What?” Victor blinked out of his musings. “No. Why would you think that?”

“You’ve been more serious than usual today. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!”

“I’m your coach. I should be serious about it, shouldn’t I?”

“Maybe.” Yuuri sat down to take off his skates. “But I like the Victor who’s scared of merkins, too.”

Victor had _just_ managed to forget that incident. “Yuuri!”

Yuuri’s lip quirked up. “It was funny to see you be the awkward one for once.”

Victor groaned, but sat beside him, and collapsed against the wall.

“You’re so cruel. My public image is going to die.”

Yuuri, the heartless monster, only chuckled. He joined Victor on the bench and started unlacing his boots. Victor removed his skates as well.

“Look on the bright side,” Yuuri said. “At least you weren’t photographed wearing my ugly clown sweater.”

Victor’s hands went still. “The sweater isn’t ugly.”

“What?”

“Hiroko made it because she loves you, and that makes it beautiful.”

Yuuri stared at him for a moment. Then, he ducked his head and smiled.

“I guess it does.”

They packed up, the silence comfortable between them, and waved goodbye to Yuuko. Yuuri didn’t have cross-training today, so they walked back to Yu-Topia together.

Victor could have biked. He _had_ ridden his bike to the rink. But this way, he got to watch the breeze ruffling Yuuri’s hair, the sunlight glimmering off his glasses, the flicker of a smile as he waved to the fishermen throwing their lines out over Pine Grove Bridge.

Victor's gaze dropped to Yuuri’s hand, swinging lightly as he walked. Victor shoved his own hand in his pocket to stop himself from reaching out. If Yuuri noticed, he made no comment on it.

“Can I ask you a weird question?”

Victor’s eyes darted back up to Yuuri’s face. “Sure.”

“What are your thoughts on mental illness?”

Victor frowned for a half-second, before changing his expression back into something neutral.

“What about it?”

“Do you think it’s real?”

Victor hesitated, not for doubt of the answer, but for Yuuri. Yuuri’s pace had slowed, and his voice quieted to the same near-mumble he’d used on the beach yesterday, when he’d pulled his knees to his chest and gazed out over the sea. Victor softened his tone to match.

“Of course it’s real.”

“You don’t think it’s just people making excuses for themselves?”

“If the rest of the body gets sick sometimes, why not the brain?”

Yuuri took a deep breath. “So if an athlete lost a competition, and they said it was because they had a panic attack...”

They had stopped now at the edge of the bridge, between the rink in the west and a forest to the east, their only company the occasional seagull overhead. Yuuri rubbed his wrist with one hand, eyes on the asphalt. Part of Victor wanted to lean in and put his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders. He settled for gripping the bridge railing instead.

“I’d respect that athlete for doing the best they could under hard circumstances, and hope they got the support they needed to recover.”

“...And what if I was like that?”

“Then I’d have some research to do, and we’d figure out how to work with it.”

Yuuri slumped as if shedding a fifty pound weight off his back. He let out a loud, long breath, and ran his hand through his hair.

“Sometimes, my brain doesn’t cooperate with me.”

Victor nodded. “It happens.”

“On the really bad days, I feel like I can’t do anything right, and that no one cares about me. And the stupid part is that I know it’s not true, _logically_ I know, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking it.”

“Then tell me when your brain is doing that, so I can tell your brain to stop it.”

At that, Yuuri finally cracked a smile. He straightened up, and lifted his eyes to Victor’s.

“I wish it would go away that easily. I guess I’m just trying to warn you, I have a lot of issues.”

“And I want you for everything that you are,” Victor said. “Your issues and your strengths, your good days and bad days.”

Yuuri's eyes widened, and his shoulders tensed.

Oops. That might have been more overt than he was comfortable with. Victor had to stop letting his feelings influence his words. He leaned back, looked away—and Yuuri hugged him.

He smelled just like he had in Sochi, with less champagne and more sweat, yet still so utterly _Yuuri_ that it dragged Victor back to that night in a second. Yuuri’s arms around him were lighter now, like sparrows that would startle at the least noise, but they sent sparks down Victor’s skin. He couldn’t guess why Yuuri was doing this, not after their conversation at the beach, but then Yuuri’s cheek brushed his and Victor couldn’t think much at all.

And in a moment, Yuuri pulled away.

“Victor? Can I suggest something for my exhibition skate?”

Victor, brain still half-melted, could only nod.

“It’s...kind of weird.” Yuuri’s fingers fidgeted with his shirt. “If you’re not okay with it, I’ll understand.”

Victor managed to wrestle back control of his mouth. “If you can’t be weird in an exhibition skate, then what’s the point?”

That made Yuuri laugh, and with it, Victor’s pulse skipped a beat.

“Alright,” Yuuri said. “I’d like to skate _Stammi Vicino.”_

Victor froze, a million incoherent thoughts sputtering out in his head. Though Yuuri’s cheeks were red, his gaze was firm.

“After Sochi, I was in a really dark place. Vicchan was dead, and I never got to say goodbye to him. I placed horribly at Japanese Nationals. Even when skating, it felt like I was slipping further and further away.” He shook himself. “So I tried to remember what made me love skating in the first place. Yuuko and I, we’d always copy your routines, so...”

Victor lay a hand over his chest, in case his pounding heart burst out of it.

“You started practicing _Stammi Vicino_.”

“It helped.” Yuuri smiled. “ _You_ helped. Even before you came here, you did a lot for me. So I want to say thank you.”

Victor’s insides were vibrating like hummingbirds, his skin cold and hot all at once, the edges of his brain bubbling with _Does he know what the song is about? Does he know what his Stammi Vicino video meant to people? What it meant to me? He doesn’t want me as a boyfriend, only as a coach, but this is..._

Yuuri gazed up at him, with wide brown eyes that could move mountains. “Please?”

Yuuri Katsuki was going to kill him. He’d kill Victor with his smile and his skating and his shyness and his courage that he hid from everyone, hid so well even _he_ didn’t know he had it. He’d kill Victor, and Victor would go down willingly.

So Victor swallowed, hand over his heart, and said, “I’d be honored.”


	9. The Favor

Two weeks later, Yuuri’s free skate was coming along nicely. The sweater, not so much. Victor had managed to untangle the non-Euclidean wool-beast, but his stitches remained uneven, and he couldn’t go one row without a mistake.

Then he’d looked up how to knit a picture.

Why, why, _why_ couldn’t the sweater be a solid color instead?

He scrubbed the plate over the sink harder than necessary. Tonight he was in the kitchen, washing dishes with Hiroko. She smiled when he said he’d be taking over for Mari.

“It’s so kind of you to help with the cleaning up.”

A small pang twisted in his chest. Mari had interrupted him mid-stitch after lunch to give him his next assignment. At least this time it was only dishes.

“It’s the least I can do, Ms. Ka—Hiroko.”

“Still,” Hiroko said, wiping down the stove, “I appreciate it. And it’s nice of you to give Mari a break.”

The pang twisted a little further. Victor shoved it away.

During business hours, Toshiya manned the kitchen and took orders, while Hiroko greeted customers and answered calls. But by dinner, they switched places to give his back a rest. And when dinner was over, a mountain of pots, pans, plates and cooking utensils invariably needed cleaning.

Scrubbing down plates was actually quite meditative. Simple and repetitive movement, like in knitting, but much easier. For one thing, scrubbing plates didn’t involve math. Victor _hired_ people to do math. Unfortunately, when he’d emailed his accountant a sweater pattern and a question about calculating “gauge,” the poor man had only responded with “What language is this?”

Fortunately, after three pages of equations, flashbacks to algebra class, and a nightmare involving scalene triangles, Victor knew how many stitches and rows to knit. Or at least, he was pretty sure. If it had been a plain sweater, or stripes, he’d be certain. But no, Makkachin had to tear up _intarsia_.

Intarsia was a technique for knitting pictures, or terrifying clown faces, by dividing them into grids. Each knit stitch formed a pixel. The stitches were knitted in rows, back and forth, slowly building up the image. Every time the needles reached a different color in the pixel-chart, the knitter switched to a different color of yarn.

On a technical level, it was ingenious. _Hiroko_ was ingenious. She hadn’t just put one stitch in front of the other, she’d created and executed a design, much like Victor choreographed his routines. She even incorporated the shape of the sweater into it, using the shoulders and collar to mimic Pennywise’s balding hairline, for maximum child-scaring effect.

And Victor’s carelessness had destroyed her work.

“You’re quiet today.”

Victor jerked up. Hiroko was wiping down the cutting boards now. Not looking at him, thank goodness. His stomach would have turned itself inside out if he had to look her in the eye.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. I’m here if you want to talk.”

He managed not to flinch. He rinsed the last plate and moved on to the rice cooker, scrubbing harder than ever. She wouldn’t be so kind to him if she knew what he had done. If he admitted it to anyone, the creator of the sweater should be the last person on his list.

But. She was also the only person who offered to listen at all.

“I thought that I...” He stopped.

“Hmm?”

The words stuck in his throat like expired cough syrup, and he struggled to get them down again. Strange. It was easy to hold his tongue for the press, for his fans, for the entire rest of the world. He cut away the ugly bits of himself until only a polished diamond remained, glittering and strong as steel. It wasn’t lying, it was about making people happy. It was professionalism.

But the words bubbled up again, and if he didn’t tell Hiroko _something_ he’d end up telling her everything, like an amateur, and it would only break her heart.

“Do you ever feel,” he said, “like you made one little mistake, and no matter what you do, it won’t go away?”

“All the time.”

He tensed, and turned to stare at her. She hung up the cutting boards and sighed.

“I’ve made many mistakes, as a mother, daughter, business owner, and person. Some of them, I can’t change.”

The dishwater dripped from his fingers, and the sponge plopped out of his hands.

“Mari and Yuuri love you. Yu-Topia still runs even though the other onsens closed down. Whatever mistakes you made, they can’t have been that bad.”

“Mari learned to smoke from watching me.”

...Oh.

Victor was an idiot. All this time he’d been fretting about his crush on Yuuri and a pile of yarn, and he thought _he_ had it tough?

He turned back to the dishes and resumed scrubbing. For the next few minutes, their only conversation was the squeaks of elbow grease.

“Yakov tried to quit fourteen times before it stuck.”

On the other side of the kitchen, the scrub of a dishcloth on the counter stilled.

“It was the hardest thing I ever saw him do. You’re not a bad mother.”

Hiroko was silent for a moment. Then, she walked over, and patted him on the arm.

“Thank you, Vicchan.”

He ducked his head, and some of the pressure in his lungs eased.

“Now,” she said, putting away the plates that had dried, “what’s on your mind? I’m sure it can’t be as bad as that.”

“It’s...difficult to talk about.” He kept his eyes on the slowly draining sink. “I think I need help, but I don’t know who to ask.”

“And it’s something I can’t help you with.”

It wasn’t a question. His chest hurt again. But Hiroko merely nodded, and if she was offended, he couldn’t see it.

“When I need someone to lean on besides Toshiya, I go to Minako.”

Victor winced. Minako _had_ come to mind, as the only knitter besides Hiroko he knew. The staff at the yarn shop didn’t know enough English to teach him, and the knitters on Ravelry could only give him suggestions in text. And although he could understand a video, if he replayed it a dozen times, he couldn’t follow the hand motions through the mass of dangling threads intarsia required.

So. Minako. Skilled knitter, experienced teacher, fluent in English. She was the obvious solution. She had also threatened to send Victor back to Russia in a body bag.

“Ms. Okukawa is busy, though.”

“She is.” Hiroko smiled. “But she’s also, in her words, an incurable meddler.”

They put the last dishes and cutlery away. In between Yuuri’s cross-training, the snack bar, and the ballet studio, Minako had little time to spare. But she might know other knitters, or be able to recommend another way Victor could learn. Yes, that seemed like a safer conversation.

Victor hummed, and checked the time on his phone. The snack bar should still be open. He turned to leave, but Hiroko’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Wait a moment, Vicchan.”

She retrieved a small potted plant from the kitchen counter, and handed it to him. It had small, thick leaves on a skinny wooden trunk, and fit in the palm of his hand.

“This is a jade plant,” she said. “The tree in the lobby needed pruning, and this cutting took root.”

“You grew this?”

“Gardening is something of a hobby for me. It’s easier on my hands than the knitting was.”

_Was._

Victor closed his eyes, and his knuckles tightened around the tiny pot.

“I can’t take this, Hiroko. I’m not...”

“Nonsense. Everyone in the family has one. Give it plenty of light, and not too much water, okay?”

She strolled off, carrying the dishcloths out for laundry and humming to herself. Victor looked down at the little plant in his hands.

Three hours later, the jade sat on his windowsill. The Katsuki family had gone to bed, and Victor left open sixteen browser tabs about jade plant care because Makkachin needed to go out.

He arrived at the Kachu Snack Bar late the next evening, and at that hour, only Minako herself remained. It was virtually unrecognizable from when the crowds filled it, chanting Yuuri’s name. Only the posters from Hot Springs on Ice testified to the occasion—still covering the walls, nearly two months after the show.

He walked in as she was setting the chairs away on the tables. She called over her shoulder with a frown.

“We’re closing for the night. Come back some other time.”

Victor smiled, fingers tightening around his knitting bag. “I’m not here as a customer.”

“Then what is it?” She wiped down a counter, not looking at him. “If it’s about Yuuri, his cross-training is going fine.”

He stopped a few feet away from her. His fingers tightened in the bag straps. Only the sounds of creaking floor-planks and Minako’s spray bottle filled the silence.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Well?”

He cleared his throat. “I need your help.”

Her hands stilled, damp cloth still on the table.

“Who did you kill?”

Victor sputtered. “What? No one!”

“Did you get someone pregnant?”

He clutched the bag in front of him and stared at her. “No!”

“Just checking.”

He let out a breath, and caught her smirking at him.

“It’s nothing serious. Just a project, of sorts.”

“What kind of project?”

He held up the bag, and glanced at the bar counter. Minako nodded, so he walked over and set the bag down. He pulled out the mangled knitting. She screwed up her face, scrutinized the mess, and looked back at him through narrowed eyes.

“Did you do this?”

“You make it sound like an accusation.”

“It is an accusation. I’ve dropped my fair share of stitches in my time, but, how did you _do_ that?”

He threw up his hands. “I don’t know! I set the sleeve down for a moment and then—”

“That’s a sleeve?” She shook her head. “Is it supposed to be lace?”

“I don’t think so? I wasn’t trying to make lace.”

“Well, you succeeded, despite not trying.”

Victor resisted the urge to rub his forehead, and kept his face as friendly as possible.

“I’ve already tried the internet, but it’s not clicking in my brain. I realize you’re a busy woman, and I don’t want to impose on your time. But perhaps you’d know another knitter who could help me learn how to fix this?”

“Why were you knitting in the first place? I’ve never seen you knitting before. And I’m a skating fan, I would have known.”

“It’s a new hobby.”

“I can see that.”

She went back to stacking chairs onto tables, and said nothing more. Victor sat down on a bar stool. Five minutes of silence later, he was still waiting, and Minako moved on to cleaning the cups her patrons had left behind the counter.

“Forgive me if this seems overly forward,” Victor said, “but I get the impression that you don’t like me very much.”

Minako scrubbed at a glass with a dishcloth. “I like you just fine.”

Victor tensed, made himself relax, and kept his smile steady.

“Sorry, but I don’t believe that.”

Minako stilled, sighed, and set the glass down. She leaned her elbows on the counter, and studied him.

“Why are you really here, Nikiforov?”

“I came to ask about—”

“No. What are you doing in Hasetsu?”

Victor blinked. That was the only reaction he allowed himself. Anything more, she would sink her claws into immediately.

“I’m here to coach Yuuri, of course.”

“Sorry, but I don’t believe that.”

Six more seconds of silence. The poster of Hot Springs on Ice hung on the wall beside them.

Victor leaned forward to match Minako’s body language, and clasped his hands together.

“You think that I’m hiding something?”

She hummed. “I was a performer for twenty years. I know a fake smile when I see one.”

Victor gazed back at her, and his smile started to waver.

“I did not mean any offense.”

“Oh, I know.” She airily waved a hand. “It’s all very charming. You’re a charming guy.”

In any other context, it would have been a compliment. But her tone was as flat as the rink of Hasetsu Ice Castle. Victor said nothing, letting his face fade back into its neutral position he wore when he was alone.

Minako’s lip quirked up. “There we go. I knew you could do it.”

“I believe in being courteous to people,” Victor said, voice tighter than he intended. “Being friendly, making them feel valued. That’s all.”

Minako lowered her head and lifted her eyebrows at him. “Really.”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Well,” she said, voice in sing-song, “it would be a lot easier to believe, if you acted like you valued Yuuri.”

 _Seriously?_ He’d left his home country, quit his career, gave Yuuri music and costumes and choreography, gave him Victor’s _time_ when Victor had precious few competitive years remaining—and she thought he didn’t care?

Victor’s knuckles were white, and he counted to ten before answering.

“Yuuri is a fantastic skater. I’m thrilled to be his coach.”

“Then why were you willing to dump him and go back to Russia over a bet?”

Her words struck like a dagger Victor’s chest, barbed with the half-truths he’d told the press all those months ago. His jaw dropped, speechless, and he stared back at her with wide eyes. Minako shook her head.

“I’m sure it was all very amusing for you,” she said, picking up the glass again. “But believe me, it’s not fun when your almost-son wakes you up at twenty to midnight, begging for help because he’s afraid his hero will abandon him.”

Victor jerked up at that. “I would never abandon him! I care about him—”

“Like you never abandoned Yurio?”

Victor shut up.

She rolled her eyes. “You let the fame get to your head. You know that there’s a thousand more people who would love to be with you, so what does it matter if you break a couple hearts along the way?”

He gaped at her. “That’s...that’s not fair.”

“No. What’s not fair is barging into someone’s life uninvited, promising them something they desperately want, then telling them you’ll leave if they don’t prove themselves to you first in a competition they never asked for.” She shoved the dishcloth into the glass and scrubbed. “Now, I’m sure it was less fair to Yurio, since the poor kid is only fifteen, but it was no fun for Yuuri, either.”

Victor tensed his shoulders, eyes unable to meet hers.

“So,” she said, “forgive me if I have trouble trusting you, when you were so ready to leave.”

“I didn’t _want_ to leave!”

His hand flew to his mouth, but the (unseemly, unprofessional) outburst already echoed off the walls, and Minako blinked at him with wide eyes.

“Then why,” she said, speaking slowly as if to a child, “did you do _that?”_

Her finger stabbed the air toward the poster, and her face hovered ten inches from his. He leaned back, running his fingers through his hair.

The competition was long gone, and Minako knew the value of public opinion. Victor had half-expected her to have realized the truth already. So he swallowed the lump in his throat, and spoke.

“First of all, I wanted to promote tourism for Hasetsu.”

“I figured that out when you named it Hot Springs on Ice.”

“Secondly,” he said, “I didn’t know if Yuuri actually wanted me here.”

Minako froze, hand in the air, and her brows knit together.

“What.”

Victor cleared his throat, glancing away. “I had thought my presence would be welcome.”

Because Yuuri _had_ invited him, even if Yuuri was too embarrassed to admit it now.

“But,” he continued, “Yuuri seemed...well, he wasn’t rude. He was fine. But I got the impression we were on different wavelengths. I know sometimes saying ‘No’ outright is considered impolite in Japan, and if he did, the gossip rags would be all over us. Knowing our reputations, people would probably assume I’d rejected _him_ for not being up to par, and that would worsen his chances for getting sponsors and a coach.

“So,” he said, “if Yuuri was in a position where it was difficult for him to say no to me openly, I had to give him another way to do it.”

As he spoke, Minako’s face drained of color, and she slumped onto her counter.

“By losing to Yurio,” she mumbled.

“By putting in less than his best effort. The show contract gave him music, a costume, a routine, and a commission high enough to buy any coach’s services he wanted, whether he won or not. The publicity would also raise his profile for sponsorships, so it would be easier for him to rejoin the competitive circuit, with or without me.

“Of course,” he finished, “I couldn't _tell_ anyone all that without ruining the plan and embarrassing Yuuri. So I sold the public a little white lie.”

Minako was leaning on her elbows now, frowning at the wood grain on the counter as if she could set it on fire with her mind.

“Did you seriously think Yuuri would throw a match?”

“Of course not. I really _would_ quit working with him if he did. But we all know skaters can’t perform at their best if their hearts aren’t in it. If Yuuri didn’t want me here, his routine would have reflected that.”

Minako sat down behind her bar, head low and arms crossed, and tapped at her elbow.

“It was never really a competition, was it? It was an opportunity for him to reject _you.”_

Victor winced, though it was only the truth. He took a deep breath.

“The competition was real, and I scored it honestly. But it wasn’t about who would be my student. It was about whether Yuuri wanted me to be his coach.”

Minako squinted at him.

“That’s what I can’t believe. Yuuri adores you.” She cocked her head. “I think you, of all people, should be able to tell.”

Victor’s hands tightened on the counter.

_“Your boyfriend, then? I’ll do my best.”_

_“No, no, no, no, no! I want you to stay who you are!”_

Victor had been accused of obliviousness before. But even he couldn’t miss the meaning there.

Yuuri had flirted with Victor when drunk. But drunk-Yuuri wasn’t the real Yuuri, and the real Yuuri wanted a strictly professional relationship. Victor tried to pull his smile back on.

“I’m not as perceptive as I thought I was.”

Her frown only deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We had a conversation. It cleared things up. Nothing new to you.”

“Victor. Nikiforov. Cleared _what_ up?”

He leaned back. How could she still make him feel cornered when he was sitting on a bar stool? But he might as well admit it. The memory had been digging into his side like a splinter; perhaps he needed to pull it out.

“I asked Yuuri if he wanted me as a boyfriend.”

She sucked in a breath. “And?”

“He rejected me.”

Minako raised a finger and opened her mouth, but was struck speechless. She shut her mouth again, and steadied herself on the counter.

“He said no?”

“Five times.”

Okay, that was a little more honesty than he’d intended.

She rested her cheek on one hand, squinting again. “You weren’t trying to badger him, were you?”

“No. Certainly not.”

Victor’s head filled with images of himself hitting on Yuuri in the onsen, at the ice rink, asking if they could sleep together, and pulling out every flirtatious trick he knew. He slumped in his seat.

“Well. Maybe a little. I thought he was just shy. But rest assured, I got the message now.”

Minako frowned down at the far wall, tapping her fingers. “He kept saying no?”

Her tone of voice was not as harsh as he expected. More contemplative than upset. But it made Victor cringe, to hear the way she phrased it.

“I probably came on stronger than I intended.”

“I’ll say.” She straightened up, and surveyed him, hands on her hips. “So. You’re not trying to get into his pants anymore?”

Victor’s jaw tightened. “It might take me forever to catch on, but I _do_ take no for an answer.”

He expected her to look pleased. Instead, her frown stayed, and she was quiet for a moment.

“Then what are you still doing here?”

“I’m his coach, Ms. Okukawa. That’s what I promised I would do, and I meant it.”

“Huh.” She tilted her head. “Even though you could be training in Russia now, surrounded by adoring fans, preparing to win another gold medal.”

Victor closed his eyes and made himself count to five before answering.

“I’ve already had my days in the limelight. But Yuuri is incredible.” His fingers pressed hard against the table. “You and I know that. Japan knows it. But most people outside Japan don’t, and if Yuuri retires now, they never will.”

“You really want him to win?”

“Of course I do! His interpretation of _Stammi Vicino_ was better than mine! He’s a master of step sequences, choreography, and everything else that has fallen to the wayside ever since the skating world became obsessed with quad jumps!”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re part of the reason why that happened.”

“Yes. I know. But Yuuri, he deserves to be recognized. Figure skating needs him.”

“And what about you? You don’t think your country misses the Hero of Russia?”

“I gave my country twenty years of my life. If I want to give the next twenty years to someone else, Russia will have to get over it.”

Minako’s eyes widened. “You want to spend twenty years with Yuuri?”

“Ah, that is...I mean, if I want...” He cleared his throat. “He’s very special, but I don’t think he sees me that way.”

She stared at him. After a moment, she shook her head.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

“Well, I’m technically new to coaching, but I do have informal experience from when Yakov—”

“No, it’s—” She raised a hand and sighed. “You came here to ask for help.”

The change in subject threw him off balance. Victor shifted in his seat. “I did.”

“You realize,” she said, “that this is something that takes time.”

“I do.”

“You can’t land a quad flip the first time you try, and this is the same way. You have to be patient. And you must be willing to learn from your mistakes.”

He nodded. “I understand. Knitting takes practice like any other skill.”

She blinked, then glanced at the knitting bag. “Hmm? Oh, right. Knitting. I have a packed schedule, but I suppose I could give you a couple of lessons. Just to make sure you’re not making tons of beginner errors. But after that, you’re on your own.”

“That’s more than generous of you. I appreciate it.”

She glared at the ceiling, and muttered something that sounded exasperated in Japanese.


	10. The Witch

Minako’s apartment reminded him, oddly, of his own. Where Yu-Topia was a heady mix of colors, lights, plants, and every Japanese trinket imaginable, Minako’s tastes ran simple. She had a few sleek modernist couches, carefully selected portraits on the walls, and the prestigious _Benoit de Danse_ award on her end table. A wide space in the living room was cleared away, in case of impromptu dance sessions.

Victor brought her take-out and sake from her favorite restaurant, Nagahama Ramen, as compensation for her time. She accepted the boxes with a gleam in her eye.

“We’ll eat later. No point getting sauce on the yarn. For now, do you want anything to drink?”

“No, thank you. Thanks for having me.”

“Yes, yes. Have a seat, and we’ll see what the problem is.”

As he sat, she tilted a floor lamp toward him. It shone bright in his face, and he had to blink spots out of his eyes. He cracked a smile.

“Am I being interrogated?”

She took her place next to him. “If I’m interrogating you, you won’t have any doubt. Or thumbnails.”

“Noted.”

“The knitting, if you please.”

Under the sharp fluorescent light, his yarn looked even more pitiful than it had yesterday. It widened and narrowed like something out of a fun-house mirror, and was dotted with mysterious holes and lumps. The texture looked nothing like the simple rows of V’s that he had seen in the original sweater. Worst of all, it wouldn’t even lay flat.

Minako took it from his hands and squinted. “Are you sure you were trying to make a sleeve? Not taking your frustrations out on the yarn?”

Victor blinked. “Do people do that?”

“I knit so I don’t kill people.”

Victor scooted a few centimeters away from her.

“I’m kidding. Get your butt back here. You won’t learn anything if you don’t watch.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, but reluctantly leaned in. She held the knitting up between them.

“Right. It’s hard to tell, but I _think_ you were attempting stockinette, right?”

“What’s that?”

“Stockinette means you do all knit stitches on one side, and all purl stitches on the other side. It creates the columns of V’s most people imagine when they think of knitting. A good place to start. Except that sleeves usually start with either a sleeve cap or a ribbed cuff, and I doubt you know how to make a sleeve cap.”

“Is that like the hood on a jacket?”

Her eye twitched. He held up his hands in surrender.

She sighed. “Let’s start with the cuff. Rip out the stitches, and start over.”

Even with all the mistakes, Victor was loathe to destroy hours of work. He held the needles close and gave her a tight smile.

“I’m sure this is all very useful, but I’d really like to talk about intarsia.”

Her head snapped up as if he had proposed eating babies for dinner. _“Intarsia?”_

He leaned away. “If that’s alright?”

Minako shuddered. “Trust me, you’ll want to master the basics before you go anywhere near that stuff.”

After insisting he unravel the mess and cast on again, she had him alternate between knit and purl stitches, creating a stretchy texture called “ribbing.” She muttered in disbelief at his lack of a grip on the yarn, and showed him ways to keep it taut, including a style native to Russia. Which he turned out to be terrible at.

“Of course you’d be the odd one.” She took the needles back and moved the yarn to her right hand. “Try it English-style, like this.”

It looked weird, compared to what he’d grown up with, as if she was waving her finger in a circle for every stitch. But when he tried it, his left hand stopped fumbling, and the yarn was easier to hold. He’d never even been to England.

It only took him about twenty minutes to figure out knits and purls this time. Then, when he was starting to get the hang of ribbing, Minako smirked, and yanked the needles right off the stitches.

“Argh!”

Victor flailed to catch the yarn, heart thudding in his chest, and stared at his row of empty stitches in horror. Any one of them could unravel at any second, destroying all of his work today. He tried to hold it as still as possible, but his hands shook.

“Why would you _do_ that?”

Her smirk only grew.

“You’re afraid of the yarn. You think it will rear up and attack you if you don’t beat it into submission. That’s why your stitches are so tight.”

“I’m not _afraid_ of it.”

“It’s also why your hands hurt after knitting for a few minutes.”

Victor gaped. Was it that obvious to her?

She held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

Gingerly, he obeyed. Minako handled the fabric much less gently than he did. She picked up one of the needles, squinted at the stitches, then poked at the top stitch on the far right.

“Watch closely. I’m about to perform witchcraft.”

Victor leaned in, and watched. She poked the needle through the loop, and slid it onto the shaft. Then, she angled it into the next loop, and slid that one on, too.

“See? Easy.”

“What’s easy?”

“I’m re-mounting the stitches. If you take the needle off, you can also put it back on. The fabric won’t fall apart in your hands.”

“But aren’t those all _dropped_ stitches?”

“I am un-dropping them. Because I am a knitter, and the yarn does what _I_ say.”

He watched her re-mount two more stitches. As she slid the next stitch on, the one after it fell back down into the fabric, its top loop disappearing.

Victor’s eyes went wide. “Uh oh.”

Minako scoffed, and waved toward her knitting supplies across the room.

“Get me my crochet hook.”

“Which one?”

“Any of them.”

He brought her a blue one. “Why would you need a crochet hook for knitting?”

“ _ _I__ don’t, but you’re a newbie, and it’s easier if you have a hook.”

She hooked into the sunken loop, made it reappear somehow, and put it back on the needle.

“Wait,” Victor said, “how did you...”

“Watch this!”

She pulled at the next stitch in line, and ripped a huge column of holes down the fabric.

“Minako, _no_!”

She burst out laughing at him. “Relax, it's nothing that can't be fixed.”

She stuck the hook back in, did a strange series of twisting moves, and Victor gawked in disbelief as the fabric zipped itself back together. Witchcraft, indeed.

Minako brandished the crochet hook at his face.

“I want you to practice screwing up on purpose, and then fixing it. So that you realize it’s _okay_ to screw up. Then you’ll be able to relax your grip, and your stitches will settle down.” She pressed the hook into his hand. “ _Then_ you can try intarsia.”

For the next hour, Victor knitted and Minako ate her take-out. Or rather, he tried to knit, until she thought of another way to mess up his work, whether by dropping stitches, twisting stitches, wrapping the yarn the wrong way, or ramming the yarn _through_ the needle. He managed to keep his cool. After all, she always showed him how to fix the error right afterward.

Then, while practicing un-twisting stitches, he heard a soft “snip.” He stopped, and glanced down at the fabric, just as a pair of scissors pulled away from a gaping hole.

If Victor’s screech of panic woke the neighbors, it was all her fault.

“Calm down,” she said while rubbing her ears. “It’s three stitches. You can sew it back together in five minutes.”

He steadied his breathing, and held the yarn to his chest.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but _please_ warn me first.”

“Do you, though?”

“Yes. You’re showing me how to fix knitting errors. Which is very kind of you, but could you at least—”

“Wrong,” she said. “I’ve been trying to infuriate you for the last two hours.”

His nerves subsided, replaced by a dull weight hanging upon him. A needle slipped absently from his hands.

“...Why?”

She coughed, and looked away. “I learned the hard way that you don’t know what a person’s truly like until you’ve seen them when they’re angry. If you were the type who would turn nasty, I wanted to know, _now.”_

“You were testing me?”

“Don’t worry, you passed.” She held out one of the take-out boxes. “Come on. Why don’t you have some dinner and I’ll fix it up for you?”

Victor looked between her, the food, and his knitting. It hurt a little, to be distrusted like that. Minako cleared her throat, and lay the box on the cushion between them.

“It's nothing personal, really. I’ve been with... _angry_ men before.” Her shoulders tensed. “I managed to get away, but if it happened to Yuuri or Mari...”

Victor swallowed, and his skin felt cold. He’d had a coach like that, once, before he’d found Yakov. He raised his eyes to hers.

“I won’t give you any reason to worry.”

She nodded. “Good.”

He handed her the yarn, and ate ramen while she showed him how to mend the hole. It _was_ pretty reassuring, to know he could do that if necessary. Then she taught him how to do increases, decreases, front loops, back loops, yarn-overs, joins, and Victor felt like his head would fall off from all the new words.

“I thought there were only two stitches,” he said. “Knit and purl.”

“That’s a lie knitters tell people to coax them into joining our ranks.”

“How long until I stop making mistakes?”

“You won’t. I’ve been dropping stitches for thirty years.”

Victor sighed, a noodle slipping off his chopsticks. “Great.”

“But,” she said, “if it’s any consolation, almost every mistake can be fixed. You can always start over until you get it right. Being a good knitter means recognizing your mistakes and learning from them, not being perfect all the time.”

At least it was more forgiving than quad jumps.

* * *

Several weeks later, he sat on his bed, skein on one side and dog on his right, the back panel of the sweater forming beneath his hands. Every fifteen minutes, he’d set the needles down, straighten his back, and walk around the room like Minako had told him to. When he picked them up again, he reminded himself not to grip too tight. The result? He’d been able to knit for over an hour today without his hands hurting.

But although knitting came more easily, some of her words came back with it.

_“It was never really a competition, was it?”_

Yurio could have won. But Yuuri had the more difficult routine, and the greater stamina and experience needed to pull it off. Yurio could have won, but only if Yuuri hadn’t tried.

Although Yurio had left with not just the routine he asked for, but a costume, publicity, and two million yen for his work, that didn’t change the fact that he’d had to chase Victor down and compete in a game he’d never asked for. Victor had paid him generously for his effort. But it was an effort Yurio never should have had to make at all.

And it wasn’t the first time adults had treated Yurio unfairly. At fifteen, he was already the main breadwinner for his family. The Russian Skating Federation expected him to work like an Olympian but treated him like a child. No wonder he was so irritable all the time.

Victor could not fix the past, but he could at least give Yurio something no other adult would: an apology.

It was late evening now, so training would be over in St. Petersburg. Victor dialed Yurio’s number, and turned on speakerphone.

Yurio picked up with a familiar grumble. “What now?”

“Hi Yurio! How are you doing?”

“That’s not my name! Why are you calling?”

“Aww, can’t a guy want to say hello to his old rink buddy?”

“I’m not your buddy. And you never call just to say hello.”

Was that true? Come to think of it, it was already July, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d called anyone in Russia. Other than Yakov and Dinara, anyway. It wasn’t because he disliked them. He had just been so excited about Hasetsu, he hadn’t remembered to keep in touch.

“Okay,” he said. “Fair point. I’m calling to apologize.”

“What for?”

“For running off to Japan without any warning. I forgot about my promise to you. I’m sorry.”

The line burst with static as Yurio tsk’d. “You’re still on about that? That was ages ago.”

“Even so. It was selfish and unkind, and you deserved better.”

For a long moment, the only sounds were the tapping of needles, and the rustle of yarn off the skein. At last, Yurio scoffed.

“Whatever. I didn’t need you, anyway. You’re a washed-up has-been that couldn’t coach an apple to fall off a tree.”

“ _He’ll n_ _ever be anyone’s coach!”_

Victor’s throat tightened. He was fine. Yakov had just blurted that out because he was shocked and angry, not because he meant it. Victor had coached informally before. He and Yuuri were making great progress in training. It was all fine.

But Regionals were coming up soon, and the whole world would be watching both of them, and if Victor didn’t measure up he’d be failing himself and Yuuri.

“Oi, old man! You still there? You better not be blanking out on me!”

He blinked back to the present. “Blanking out?”

“Yeah, that crap where you act like a Ken doll instead of a person. I _know_ you, so don’t you dare pull that shit with me.”

Where did Yurio get _that_ image? And what made him think he knew Victor well enough to recognize it? But then, hadn't Mari said something like...

“ _He is a child, and he looks up to you.”_

Victor’s hands went still. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Yurio said. “Stop it. Go...hug your stupid Katsudon or something.”

Victor’s lip twitched up. Soon after Yurio had come to Hasetsu, a popular Yuuri Katsuki fansite had been suspiciously flooded with pictures of Yuuri posters scattered around the town. Along with complaints about how Victor Nikiforov was annoying, got up way too early every morning, and Yuuri deserved better.

At the time, Victor had bookmarked the page and chuckled at “xXxIcetigerxXx’s” comments. Yurio had always been a little jealous, but...

“I mean it,” Yurio said. “Are you even listening? I need you to coach Katsudon properly so I can kick both your asses this fall.”

But, maybe Mari had seen something Victor hadn’t.

“Aww,” he said, “it almost sounds like you care.”

“Ugh, shut up.”

Victor smiled, shook his head, and picked up his needles again.

“But really, how are things going for you? Have you made Yakov lose the rest of his hair yet?”

“Fine. I’ve got him _and_ a former prima ballerina of the Bolshoi coaching me now.”

“Lilia Baranovskaya?”

“She makes Yakov look like a teddy bear.”

Victor chuckled. “That’s her, alright.”

“Just you wait. The Grand Prix Final is _mine_ _.”_

Victor smiled down at his knitting, and used the crochet hook Minako gave him to fix a dropped stitch. Yuuri and Yurio were both assigned to the Rostelecom Cup, weren’t they? _That_ was going to be fun. And Victor would see Yakov even sooner, in China. Maybe they could go out for dinner after the free skate, like in old times.

“Speaking of Yakov, could you pass along a message for me?”

“I’m not your errand boy.”

“Tell him I’m doing well, and that I hope he is, too. Are he and Lilia getting on alright?”

“They’re professionals. Personal feelings don’t enter into it.” Yurio snorted. “Unlike _someone_ I know, who ran halfway across the world to try to get a boyfriend.”

“My, that person sounds like a terrible role model.”

“Heh, yeah. Say hi to Yuuko and Mari for me?”

“I will.”

Yurio hung up, and Victor let out a deep breath. He leaned back against the headboard, absently scratching Makkachin’s ears, an old weight easing off his chest. Perhaps he should call more often.

Where once the stitches had clung to the needles like their little yarny lives depended on it, they now shifted more smoothly, though he doubted he’d ever knit as fast as Minako could. He could tell the front side of the stitch from the back, twist or untwist it, and even “ladder down” to fix mistakes a hundred stitches back, without undoing his entire work. The first time he’d managed _that_ _,_ he felt like a wizard.

Deliberately making mistakes and fixing them had taught Victor two things. One, it wasn’t that scary to mess up. It could always be fixed, and usually within a few seconds. And two, once he wasn’t afraid he’d wreck everything, knitting was almost kind of fun. Almost.

As harsh as Minako’s teaching style could be, it burned knitting techniques into his brain better than a video ever could. Only yesterday did she demonstrate intarsia. He could have asked her for advice on sweater-making, too, but that came too close to revealing his motive for learning.

There was a knock at his door. Victor hid his project under the blanket in quick, practiced motions, and called out, “Come in!”

Mari stuck her head through the doorway, face lined in uncharacteristic worry.

“Mom is sick,” she said. “I need your help.”


	11. The Customer

Victor jumped to attention. “Hiroko's ill? How bad is it?”

“Come with me.”

His chest tightened, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. The image of a hospital bed and trembling hands flashed in his mind. He stowed his project in Tchaikovsky, then followed Mari down the hall.

Hiroko and Toshiya’s room concentrated all the quirkiness of Yu-Topia into one spot. Her garden of miniature jade plants dotted the windowsill and desk. From the ceiling hung paper lanterns that cast the room in a soft golden glow. The walls were packed with the weirdest and rarest masks and trinkets from Toshiya’s collection. At the center, Hiroko sat in bed, with Toshiya and Yuuri by her side.

Hiroko was pale, and her hair uncombed, but she waved at Mari and Victor with her usual good cheer. Her hands were steady and free of scars. Victor’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

 _Ridiculous_ , he thought. _Get a hold of yourself, Victor. Mom died years ago._

“Mari! Vicchan! Don’t tell me you were worried, too.”

Mari set her hand on her hip. “You’re my mother. I wanted to see if there was anything we could do for you.”

“That’s sweet of you. But really, it’s only a cold.”

The knot in Victor’s stomach loosened a little further. See, everything was fine. People recovered from colds all the time.

Yuuri stepped over, and whispered to him.

“Is Mari dragging you into doing chores again?”

Victor whispered back. “I wanted to make sure your mother is okay.”

“Oh. Uh, sorry.”

Hiroko leaned into Toshiya’s side, her hand cupping her cheek.

“It’s really no big deal. I’d be scrubbing the showers this very minute, but _someone_ insists I stay in bed.”

Toshiya wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a wan smile.

“Just until you’re no longer contagious, I promise. You’ll soon be buzzing around the onsen like always.”

“And you deserve a rest,” Mari said. “The onsen’s been busy lately. Maybe you could make that scarf you were telling me about?”

Hiroko folded her hands in her lap, and her eyes drifted toward the yarn basket in the corner of the room.

“I’d love to, but the needles are too hard on my hands these days.”

A few feet away from them, Victor looked away. His eyes fell on the yarn basket, which was full of pretty skeins. And dust.

He managed not to show it on his face, but his hands clenched behind his back.

Toshiya squeezed Hiroko’s shoulder. “No matter. You got a new horror novel, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes! _Pet Sematary._ I’d love it if you could do the voices.”

“I love doing the voices too! But then who will manage the front desk? Mari can’t be in three places at once.”

“We could close the business for the day.”

Beside Victor, Yuuri shifted from one foot to the other. He glanced between Hiroko and the hall, and then to Victor, but his eyes darted away immediately.

“Mom, I’m sorry I can’t...”

She waved a hand. “No, you have training today. We couldn’t ask that of you.”

Yuuri sent Mari a pointed glance. Mari held up her hands and nodded. Victor watched the exchange with interest. So, it took three people to keep things open, did it?

“Yuuri,” he said, “let’s move training to the rest day that was scheduled for tomorrow.”

The rest of the family looked at him in surprise.

“If Yuuri and I help out, there should be enough people to staff the onsen, right?”

Yuuri stared between him and Mari. Mari was also studying Victor, eyes wide. Yuuri looked back to him.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

Behind Yuuri, Toshiya’s eyebrows rose, and he looked at Hiroko. She smiled and nudged his shoulder.

Victor’s chest tightened again. They acted like Yakov and Lilia used to, long before the divorce.

Mari shrugged. “If they’re both here then you two can rest.”

“Alright, then,” said Toshiya. “But don’t hesitate to come get me if something comes up.”

“We won’t.”

She and Yuuri turned to leave, when a great idea struck Victor.

“Could Makkachin help?”

“No dogs are allowed in the onsen,” Mari said.

“I mean in here. Poodle cuddles are the best medicine.”

Hiroko’s face lit up. “I would love to have Makkachin in here!”

Victor left and, returned with his dog. Makkachin was all too content to lay in Hiroko’s lap while Toshiya retrieved her novel and began to read. Mari, Yuuri and Victor reconvened in the hall.

“Okay,” Mari said, “here’s the plan. None of us can cook and Victor’s Japanese is still rough, so let’s have me in the lounge and bar, Yuuri at the front desk, and Victor in the back. Kitchen will be closed to guests today. Sound good?”

“Fine with me. Yuuri?”

“Got it.”

“Oh yeah,” Mari said, “and Victor?”

Victor straightened up, but she gave him a half-smile, and said, “Thanks.”

He returned it with a nod. She strolled off to her post, leaving Yuuri and Victor in the hall. Yuuri moved as if to follow her, paused, and stood in front of Victor. He rubbed his neck.

“I’m sorry this came up now. I know you were looking forward to rehearsing the exhibition skate.”

Victor waved that away. “This is more important.”

Yuuri blinked, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Then his mouth quirked up, and he hugged Victor tightly. Victor hugged him back and tried not to melt into a puddle of happy goop. They held each other for a few wonderful moments, before Yuuri reddened and ran off to the front desk. Victor wrapped his hands around his waist, still feeling the warmth of Yuuri’s touch.

Yep, this was definitely worth it.

The onsen was busy, as Mari had said, but taking care of it wasn’t complicated. Victor’s job was mainly laundry and restocking the shower supplies during breaks, and cleaning up any obvious mess he saw. Some hours later, he was passing through the hallway, arms full of towels, when he noticed an old man getting in Mari’s face.

The man was one of the onsen customers, and he had a face like an iguana and the posture of a peacock. He shouted something in Japanese, and Mari held up her hands placatingly.

Victor stopped at the entrance to the lounge, and glanced around the room. The other customers stared at the old man with distaste. Mari was frozen to the spot, shoulders tensed and her voice strained. At the front desk, Yuuri was on a phone call, his hand furiously scribbling something down, but his eyes darted back at the old man and Mari. He caught Victor’s eye, and gestured subtly at the customer.

Victor nodded. Time to turn on the charm. But how to de-escalate a conflict when he couldn’t even understand what the man was angry about? Victor had learned quite a few Japanese words and phrases, but he was far from conversational. Most of his interactions in that language were fans stopping him for autographs and selfies.

His eyes lit up. Of course!

He gasped loudly, threw down his towels, and ran forward to the angry man. He dropped to one knee, clasped his hands together, and gave him his best puppy-dog eyes.

“Excuse me, good sir!” he pleaded, in technically correct but horribly accented Japanese. “I love you! Please take a selfie with me!”

The man gawked at him, stunned speechless, and probably baffled by this random foreigner declaring love to him.

“I’m your biggest fan.” Victor clapped one hand over his heart. “You’re my hero! Please?”

Across the room, Yuuri burst out laughing, and Mari hid her face behind her hands. Two of the other patrons held up their phone cameras. The iguana-man tensed up, and glanced around the room, anger now mixed with bewilderment.

“What? Who are you?”

Victor sighed happily, doing his best impression of his lovelorn fangirls: head ducked, eyes half-hidden between his fingers, voice high enough to make a bat slam into a window.

“Ah, he asked me for my name! I’m so honored!”

Mari snorted behind her hands, and the other patrons were openly giggling now. The man turned beet red, and jabbed a finger in Victor’s face. He spewed a string of Japanese that Victor couldn’t follow, but which was probably not very polite. Then the man jerked his head back to Mari, and began raving again.

Victor’s shoulders slumped a little, but he kept his smile in place. Oh, well. It was worth a try. But all of his Japanese lines had been exhausted, and the man hadn’t forgotten about Mari. Now what?

He rose to his feet, and as the man shouted in nasally-drawled Japanese, Victor noticed something odd about the man’s hair. The part didn’t lay quite right. Nor did the top strands fall along the same grain as the side. Aha. There.

Victor stepped behind the man, reached up, and yanked off his toupee. The man squawked and whirled around, gaping at Victor with pure, blood-curdling rage.

Victor ran.

The iguana-man chased him, shouting probably very unkind words. Victor fled outdoors, and darted through the alleys between Yu-Topia and other buildings in the neighborhood, his foul-tempered pursuer huffing and puffing behind him. It didn’t take long for Victor to round a corner and get a few seconds ahead.

Since Victor was not, in fact, interested in changing his career from “figure skater” to “thief,” he climbed a tree near the corner, and lay in wait for the other man. Iguana-man rounded the bend, and stopped, clutching his hip and glaring from side to side. Victor leaned forward, toupee in one hand and tree branch in another, and aimed very, very carefully. He let the toupee go, and it dropped onto the man’s head with an awkward _plop_.

The man froze, blinked up at Victor, and yelled something else unrepeatable. Victor dropped down, and sprinted back to Yu-Topia. He made it back with the man chasing him, slammed the doors shut, and locked them. Panting hard, he leaned back against the wall. Mari, to Victor’s amazement, started giggling.

“That man,” she said, hand over her mouth. “Do you know who he was?”

Victor tilted his head. “Who?”

“Merkin Man.”

His jaw dropped. _“No.”_

She burst into unbridled guffaws. “Really! He accused me of stealing his ‘toupee’!”

Mari hadn’t been scared. She’d been _grossed out_. And probably a little stunned by the man’s crudeness.

“He was _wearing_ his toupee.”

“I know!” She clutched her sides and had to lean against the counter to support herself. “I said, sir, we haven’t seen any of those lately, and even if we had, you couldn’t have it back for sanitary reasons.”

“And that’s when he started yelling at you?”

She cleared her throat. “I might have also implied that anyone who wore a merkin into an onsen would be banned from our waters forever.”

Victor shuddered. “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_. I was five seconds away from smacking him, which wouldn’t have been good for business.”

“I don’t imagine a customer getting his wig grabbed will help much, either.”

“No, but he’s less likely to sue over something this embarrassing.” She gestured to an elderly woman drinking sake in the lounge. “Besides, Yuuri and some of the customers got the whole thing on video, which clearly shows him for the jerk he is.”

Victor glanced about. “Where is Yuuri, anyway?”

“He went to get something in storage.”

“Right.” Victor leaned against the counter, checking his nails for bits of stray hair. “You know what the sad thing is, though?”

“What?”

“I never did get the man’s autograph.”

They both started giggling again. Outside, a nasally voice shouted and banged on the door.

Mari tilted her head towards the noise. “Looks like you’ve got another chance.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

He walked away from the muffled complaints at the door, brushed the leaves from his shoulders, and picked up the towels he had dropped.

“By the way, Yurio says hello.”

Her face lit up. “Oh? How is he?”

“He’s doing well. My old coach is training him, as is a prima ballerina. He’ll be a contender in the Grand Prix for sure.”

“That’s great to hear! I’ve been following him on social media, but everyone is so fake on the internet.”

Victor nodded. “And, also...I apologized to him.”

Mari stilled. She was silent for a few seconds, then nodded. “How did he take it?”

“He said I was a washed-up has-been, that I couldn’t coach an apple to fall off a tree, and that he didn’t need me anyway to win gold.”

“Ouch.”

Victor smiled and shook his head.

“Of course, Yurio also thinks ‘Puma Tiger Scorpion’ is a great name for a cat, so I don’t have the highest confidence in his judgment.”

Her lips started twitching. “You’re not serious.”

“It’s ‘Potya’ for short.”

“That sounds _just_ like him.” She snorted, before her face softened. “Thanks for letting me know. I was worried about him.”

Victor shrugged. “Anytime.”

Outside, Merkin Man was still raving. They both ignored him.

“Well,” Victor said, “I guess I’ll put these towels away.”

He turned, and almost ran into Yuuri, who came in carrying a massive shipping box.

“Woah—hey, Victor!”

“What’s that?”

“Just something that came in the mail last month.” Yuuri smiled. “You two should probably hide. I’m the only one Merkin Man isn’t furious at.”

From behind a corner, Victor, Mari and several patrons watched Yuuri unlock the door. He swung it open, and Merkin Man nearly tumbled inside. The man looked ready to erupt in another tirade when Yuuri dropped the box to the floor between them, landing it with a soft _thump._ He bowed, and spoke too softly for Victor to hear. The man snapped at him a few times, and Yuuri hummed and nodded.

Then Yuuri opened the box. In an instant, the man hushed his voice. After a few mumbled exchanges, he took the box, gave one final harrumph, and strode out with his nose in the air. Yuuri waved him out with a smile.

When Merkin Man was out of earshot, Yuuri turned back to everyone. “We won’t be hearing from him again.”

Mari strolled back into the lounge. “About time.”

Victor glanced both ways, just in case, before leaving his hiding spot. Through the window, Merkin Man was well down the road. Victor let out a breath.

“Yuuri,” he asked, “what did you do?”

“Oh, nothing much.” Yuuri brushed an invisible speck of dust from his shirt, and returned to jotting down notes at the front desk.

“ _Yuuri,”_ Victor said, leaning on the counter.

The corner of Yuuri's lip twitched up. “I might have offered him the largest collection of merkins in Kyushu.”

Victor stared at him for a second, then slumped. _“Dinara.”_

Mari hid her snort behind her hand.

“You’re not—” Victor cut himself off, eyes widening at the gleam in Yuuri’s eye.

“Might as well put them to some use, right?”

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Victor said, helplessly shaking his head, “you are a genius.”

“No, I’ve just worked customer service before. The easiest way to deal with angry irrational people is to bribe them to go away.”

Victor chuckled at him, and rested his chin on one hand. “Well, thank god for bribery.”

 


	12. The Burden

They related the day’s events to Hiroko and Toshiya at dinner that evening. Toshiya, it turned out, actually knew Merkin Man, though not as a friend. Merkin Man was the sort who acted gentlemanly and respectful as long as authority figures were present, but when he saw Mari without her parents, he took the chance to harangue her. This was the first time he’d overtly caused trouble at the business, but Hiroko and Toshiya were glad to see him go.

“Yuuri handled it beautifully,” Victor said. “I have no idea how he managed to talk that man down.”

Yuuri smiled and ducked his head. “It’s just part of running a business. Most customers are nice, but everyone runs into someone like Merkin Man sooner or later.”

Hiroko nodded. “Vicchan, have you ever had a job where you had to deal with the public?”

“That depends on what you mean by job.”

“Oh?”

“You recall how a bunch of reporters and new customers came here as soon as word got out I was in Hasetsu.”

Mari snorted. “We still get those every week or so.”

“There’s very little money in competitive figure skating, even for people at the very top, like Yuuri and me.” Yuuri startled at that, but Victor continued. “I didn’t come from a wealthy background, so I had to rely on sponsorships. And sponsors only care about one thing: image.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mari said. “Your point?”

“I had to maintain an image that companies would want their brands associated with. Cheerful, respectable, always friendly to fans, never angry or awkward or tired. And above all, successful.” He put on one of his camera-ready smiles to demonstrate. “Not the same as customer service, of course. You’re way ahead of me there.”

As Victor spoke, Yuuri studied him with an unreadable look. Yuuri’s hands drifted downward, and the rice fell from his chopsticks, as if forgotten.

“I never thought that much about my image.”

Victor shrugged. “And that’s fine. You went to college, you have other ways to make a living.”

“But you have those sports modeling and business contracts...”

“Because I spent hours every day marketing myself and building an audience. It didn’t just happen to me.”

Yuuri’s brows drew together at that, and he fiddled with his chopsticks.

“That sounds like a ton of pressure to live under.”

“Hardly.” Victor chuckled. “I never had to deal with angry customers.”

“Yeah, but customers _leave_ at the end of the day. Did the camera ever leave you?”

Victor blinked. His first instinct was to say yes, of course it did. But when he tried thinking of _when_...At practice there were his rinkmates and spectators, on dog walks he and Makkachin got stopped all the time, and even in his home he’d be conferencing with his P.R. team and managing his social media profiles.

Victor was no idiot. He knew to act as if every mic was hot and every camera was running, and that meant every cell phone, too. People who forgot that were torn apart.

Toshiya’s voice broke him out of his reverie.

“What about your family? I imagine it must have been quite an adjustment for them when you moved here.”

Beside him, Yuuri’s shoulders hunched, and his gaze dropped to the floor. Of course, Yuuri was a skating fan. He would know. Victor cleared his throat.

“I didn’t have any issues with relatives about my decision.”

It was technically true. Toshiya brightened.

“Oh, they were supportive? I’m glad. Do you get to talk to them much?”

The only faces that came to mind were Yakov, Yurio and Dinara. Victor shook himself, pushing that irrational thought away. But the way Toshiya was looking at him—he needed an answer.

“No. We’re...not in touch.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Mari cocked her head, edamame halfway to her lips. “Huh? I thought they were dead?”

Victor and Yuuri winced.

Mari clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Victor said. “It was a long time ago, so I’m over it now.”

Hiroko’s hand drew up to her face. “But you’re so young.”

Victor’s stomach felt like it was squirming, but he managed to shrug and wave it off.

“It’s not so bad. I have Makkachin.”

“Even so.” She clasped her hands and smiled. “For as long as you’re here, I hope you can feel like you’re part of our family.”

Victor’s eyes widened, and he leaned away.

“That’s...that’s very kind, Ms. Katsuki.”

Her smile faltered. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone.”

The squirming grew worse, joined by Lilia Baranovskaya’s voice saying, _Ungrateful_ _boy_ _, she was trying to be nice to you._

“No, that’s not—I mean, thank you,” Victor said. “But don’t burden yourself about me. You have enough to deal with already.”

“You aren’t a burden, dear.”

Something in Victor ached at that. An old, dull soreness, like a limb that hadn't healed quite right. There was an unhappy look on the Katsukis’ faces: not angry, not upset, but quieter, and for some reason that made it worse. Victor stood.

“Thank you for dinner. It was a pleasure as always. Excuse me, Makkachin needs a walk.”

Silently, Victor begged them not to follow him. He took Makkachin out on the sidewalk, where the pavement had cooled, and the streetlights were beginning to flicker on. In the warm rush of evening air, he was finally able to breathe again. His thoughts skittered in circles like lemmings.

Why had he let himself speak so carelessly? When people asked about his life, they wanted to hear about competitions and banquets and photoshoots, not the thousands of hours spent training, studying, poring over his bank statements. They wanted the glamor of the celebrity-athlete lifestyle, not the decade he’d spent on the edge of financial disaster, not the bruises and blood.

Victor had answered truthfully, when he was younger, back before he knew what people liked. The interviewers cut out most of what he said, leaving only the pretty and cheerful parts, like cutting a diamond until it shone. Lilia had told him not to forget himself, that interviews were as much a performance as his routines. She was right, too. The cheerful articles sold so much better than the sad ones.

But after months in Hasetsu, out of the public eye, Victor had let himself slip. After all the Katsukis had done for him, he’d soured their evening by talking about money and dead people. Lilia would have clucked her tongue at that.

Only two weeks remained until the Regional Championships. When that time came, Yuuri would need a coach he could lean on for strength, not one more person to worry about. And there was nothing _to_ worry about, because Victor was fine. Just fine.

A shuffling came from behind him, and he jumped. Into the orange streetlight stepped Yuuri, and Victor schooled his face back into a smile. They’d have to talk. He needed a safe topic, far away from cameras and questions and money troubles.

“Regionals are coming on fast, aren’t they?”

There. Please, please let Yuuri take it.

“Yeah.” Yuuri stopped to stand beside him. He stared off toward the bridge to Ice Castle Hasetsu. “I’m wondering if we should extend our sessions. I want to make sure I’m prepared.”

Half the tightness drained from Victor’s body, and he couldn’t stop himself from sighing.

“You’ve already been training overtime. I don’t want you to overdo it.”

“I won’t.” Yuuri’s lip quirked up, a mere shadow at this hour. “Before I moved to America, I used to sneak out all the time. I’d practice for hours at the rink, and Yuuko’s mom would yell at me when she found me sleeping in the locker room the next morning.”

The benches in that room would murder Victor’s back if _he_ tried that. He put down another point down for the “Yuuri Katsuki is secretly a figure-skating demon” theory.

Makkachin trotted to the edge of the block, and Victor looked back and forth between Yuuri and the path ahead. Yuuri replied with a half-shrug and a tilt of his chin. Hands in his pockets, Victor began walking forward, slowly at first, and Yuuri followed beside him.

“When I was little,” Victor said, “I used to hide in the storage closets at my old rink. I thought that if my mother couldn’t find me, she couldn’t take me away from practice.” He snorted. “It made sense when I was six.”

Yuuri nodded. “My mom bribed me with food.”

“Knowing your mom’s cooking, I don’t doubt that it worked.”

Makkachin strayed a little too far ahead, and Victor whistled her back. She bounded back to them, tail wagging, and nuzzled at Yuuri’s legs.

“My mother could’ve burned water,” Victor said. “She just looked through every room at the rink until she found me. I thought it was the best game of hide and seek ever.” His smile faded. “It must not have been so fun for her, though, wondering where her son was. I must have made half her hair turn gray.”

Beside him, Yuuri looked up from scratching Makkachin’s ears, face half hidden in shadow.

“Did she ever get mad at you for it?”

“Oh, definitely. She never tried to hide her feelings.” Victor's lip quirked up. “One time she actually started banging her head against her desk, after I played _March of the Toy Soldiers_ on repeat for a week.”

Yuuri tilted his head at that, so Victor hummed _The Nutcracker’s_ famous motif, and Yuuri groaned and rubbed his forehead. It was a beautiful song...for the first twenty times it was played.

“Great,” Yuuri said. “Now it’s stuck in my head. I’m amazed she didn’t kill you.”

Victor chuckled, and shook his head. “So am I.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, but after a moment, a jolt ran up Victor's spine. Hadn't he been trying _not_ to talk about his past?

He glanced at Yuuri from the corner of his eye. A slight smile still rested on Yuuri's lips, and his eyes lit up when Makkachin ran ahead. He wasn't annoyed or disappointed in Victor. Or at least, he didn't seem to be. What was it about Yuuri that made Victor say more than he should have?

Makkachin led them down to the riverbank, far below Pine Grove Bridge. When the Sun went down in St. Petersburg, every meter of water would sparkle with the reflections of glowing windows. But here, the buildings were few, and the river dark as ink. Victor whistled Makkachin back again, and they retraced their steps to Yu-Topia.

“Victor?”

“Hmm?”

Yuuri turned to him, eyes golden-brown under the orange streetlights.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Victor’s face grew warm, and at that moment his fingers brushed Yuuri’s. He would have pulled back, but then Yuuri lay his hand in Victor’s, warm and steady. The lemmings in Victor’s brain quieted, if only for a little while, and he closed his eyes.

“I’m glad I’m here, too.”

* * *

As they arrived at the rink the next morning, Victor’s phone started beeping. When he saw the caller ID, his knuckles went white.

Oh. Oh, dear.

Yuuri looked up from the bench where he was putting on his skates. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just a call I have to take. Could you start warming up?”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow at that, but nodded, and finished tying his laces. As he left, Victor placed mini-Makkachin on the rink wall for moral support. He snapped his smile back into place, and answered in Russian.

“Hello, Dinara.”

“Victor, what the hell are you _doing?”_

He stood up straighter, keeping his smile on, and his shoulders very, very still.

“Good to hear from you! I’m doing great. How are you?”

“Terrible. When I called you about the merkin incident, I didn’t mean it as a challenge.”

Victor’s eyes widened. Mari _had_ mentioned some of the patrons recording on their phones, but he thought they’d put their phones away by the time he returned.

“Wow, you heard about it fast.”

“Instagram is freaking out. Tumblr is _down_. I’m trying to get YouTube to take down a music video called ‘Do You Know the Merkin Man?’”

Victor’s hand flew up to cover his giggle, but a squeak still got out.

Dinara grunted. “Oh sure, it’s all very funny for you. What’s _not_ funny is three of your sponsors telling me they want to break off your contracts.”

Victor blinked at that. “I wasn’t even naked this time.”

“No, but it’s awfully hard to sell athletic gear when the model says things like this.”

She played an audio clip, and there was Victor’s voice, saying, “Thank god for bribery.” He stifled another chuckle. Dinara clucked her tongue.

“You do recall,” she said, voice low and dangerous, “the Sochi Olympics scandal four years ago.”

Victor stiffened. Four years ago, half of Russia’s teams had come under suspicion for doping or corruption. Victor, as one of the first medalists confirmed clean, became the go-to for journalists whenever they needed to say something positive about their host country. He'd parlayed their attention into international fame, and wrestled his finances back into respectable shape. Into _better_ shape, good enough to retire early now. All because the world knew Victor Nikiforov for perfect niceness, perfect skating, and perfect incorruptibility.

 _Not_ for stealing toupees and making jokes about bribery.

“Dinara, that was—”

“You have a brand. My job is to protect that brand. And, with all due respect, you’ve been making my job difficult.”

He ducked his head. “Fair point.”

“And it’s not only the sponsors.” There was a rustling of paper in the background. “You haven’t made any new contracts, or any media appearances since Hot Springs on Ice, and that makes businesses antsy. They’re wondering if you’re still reliable. The Russian Skating Federation keeps sending me letters about how you’ll be disqualified from Nationals if you don’t get your act together.”

“I’m not going to Nationals this year. Wait, they’re mailing letters to _you_?”

“Everyone in your team back here is getting them. The Federation gave up on talking to you, and they’re leaning on us instead.”

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

“Please, I work PR, I eat shit like this for breakfast. This doesn’t scare me. What does bother me, is that none of us have a clue what _you’re_ planning.”

“I’ll be in touch more often. The next offers I consider, you’ll be the first to know.”

“That’s just it, Victor. You’re not taking offers. You’re spending all your time on Yuuri Katsuki.”

Victor’s fingers tightened around his phone, and his eyes drifted toward the ice. Yuuri had finished his warm-up laps and was practicing his step sequence. He moved far more fluidly now than when Victor had arrived three months ago.

Three months of coaching, choreographing, and watching Yuuri’s past performances. Three months, and he’d knitted most of a sweater, _and_ learned intarsia along the way. He hadn’t checked his business email in weeks.

Dinara’s voice was soft. “Come back to Russia. I’m still getting proposals for you, skating and otherwise. You can revive your career if you come back.”

“This is my career. I’m coaching Yuuri.”

“You can’t be Yuuri’s coach _and_ the Hero of Russia.”

“Then I’ll be Yuuri’s coach.”

The line went quiet. Victor brushed his fingers over Mini-Makka’s fur.

“Victor.”

She didn’t have to say anything more. Her tone was enough. He began pacing.

“I’m serious. Have you seen him at his best? His step sequences and spins are excellent. His performance components are unmatched. His artistry, I don’t know, he makes the music follow _him_ instead of him following the music. He’s an unpolished diamond. I’ve already had my turn in the spotlight, but it would be a tragedy if the figure skating world lost Yuuri before he ever had a chance to shine.”

She was quiet for a few seconds, and in the silence Victor realized how loud he had gotten. Yuuri had stopped skating, and stared across the rink at him with wide eyes.

Thank god Victor was speaking in Russian.

“You remind me,” she said at last, “of how I felt, when I proposed to my wife.”

He winced, smiling more from habit than feeling. He turned away from Yuuri and lowered his voice.

“It’s not like that.”

“Don’t give me that. I was at the banquet too, you know. I _saw_ you two.”

“It’s not—” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “He was drunk. I asked him about it, and he wants our relationship to be strictly professional.”

“You’re joking.”

He laughed, once. “I wish I could say that. I made a fool of myself before we finally sat down and talked about it. I’m his coach, that’s all.”

“And are you happy with that?”

“I get to see him happy.”

She sighed, sending a burst of static down the line. “You really do have it bad.”

“He’s worth it.”

“Even worth the cost of your reputation? Worth alienating your fans, sponsors, contractors—the Federation itself? Worth sacrificing your last competitive years?”

Victor glanced over his shoulder, meeting Yuuri’s questioning gaze across the ice. Victor sent him a tight smile and a thumbs-up. Yuuri returned it with a wave.

“I’m sorry, Dinara. But I made a promise, and I’m going to see it through.”

“You’ve broken a lot of promises this year.”

“I won’t break this one.”

Dinara was quiet for a moment. There was a rustle of papers over the line.

“In that case,” she said softly, “it was a pleasure working with you.”

Victor bowed his head, catching the meaning. “I thought I made you tear out your hair as often as not.”

She snorted. “Alright, it was _eventful._ Let’s go with that.”

He smiled sadly. “Thank you. For all the work you’ve done.”

“Take care of yourself, Victor.”

She hung up. Victor closed his eyes, phone at his ear, and let himself fall back against the rink wall. He allowed himself to lean there, lightheaded and heavy at once, another piece of his old life drifting away from him.

The ice hissed faintly with Yuuri’s approach. “Everything okay?”

Victor hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “My senior agent quit on me.”

“Oh, man. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. It was...” Victor raised his head, and stared at the far wall, where the triplets had left their dollhouse lying around for anyone to trip over. He shook himself.

“It was a long time coming. We didn’t need each other anymore.”

He’d write her a sparkling recommendation letter. Letters for the rest of his team, too. No point keeping them on call when he never called them. No one in Hasetsu had asked him for more than a quick selfie in months, anyway.

Dinara would have had a migraine if he’d told her that.

“Victor?”

“It’s nothing.” Victor set aside his phone, and looked away.

Yuuri looked down, fingers tight on the rink barrier. “I heard my name. I’m not causing trouble for you, am I?”

“Never.” He put on a smile he didn’t feel. “I’m perfectly capable of getting myself into trouble, thank you.”

One of Yuuri’s hands picked at the edge of the barrier, chipping off old flecks of paint.

“Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Of course I am.” Victor sat down on a bench, still not making eye contact. “Let’s work on your Salchow.”

But as Victor was putting his skates on, Yuuri left the ice. He put on his skate guards and walked to his equipment bag.

“I found a rat last night.”

Victor blinked. “What?”

“A Russian one, this time.”

Victor’s hands stilled over his laces, and his brows drew together. “Yuuri...”

Yuuri reached into his bag, lips twitching, and pulled out something silver, fluffy, and absolutely mortifying.

“See, the color helps it blend in with the snow. Maybe it’ll respond if you speak Russian at it.”

Victor gaped at him for a moment, then jumped up from the bench and lunged. Yuuri jumped back, laughing like the evil demon he was.

“Yuuri, for god’s sake—”

Yuuri wriggled away and held the merkin far out of reach. “I had to. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not, you’re laughing at my _pain.”_

“Okay. Yes. I am.” He grabbed Mini-Makka and lay the merkin on its head. “Now you and Mini-Makka can match.”

Victor definitely did not smile at that. His mouth didn’t quirk up and he didn’t raise a hand to muffle his snicker. No, that was the sound of the wind. The wind in the air-conditioned ice rink.

“I can’t believe this.” Victor drooped over the rink barrier, and pillowed his head in his arms. “After all we’ve been through, my student has turned against me.”

“It’s okay, Victor. You’ll always have Mini-Makka.” Yuuri walked the plushie over to him, and pretended to paw at his elbow. “Arf, arf.”

Okay, maybe Victor snickered a little bit.

Yuuri held the toy up. “This thing is so cute. Where’d you get it?”

“Oh, at a store for...” Victor caught himself. “From a store in Fukuoka.”

“Did they have any others for sale?”

“No. This one was made as a display piece.”

“That’s a shame.” Yuuri’s eyes softened, and he ducked his head. “It reminds me of Vicchan.”

“Do you want it?”

Yuuri winked. “You named it. It’s your responsibility now.”

He set mini-Makka on the rink wall, and skated back out to center ice. Victor smiled, gave the plushie a squeeze, and joined him.

Some things were worth losing a career for.


	13. The Train

September arrived with high winds and golden leaves, and with it, came the regional championships. Yuuri arrived at training sessions early now, and stayed later and later. Victor had to remind him not to over-train. After all, most competitive skaters couldn’t run through their programs more than once per day. Couldn’t Yuuri ease up a little?

Yuuri responded to that by skating _Eros, Yuuri on Ice_ and _Stammi Vicino_ back-to-back and nailing every jump, because apparently Yuuri’s real Eros was sheer bloody-mindedness. The sole concession he made to the limits of the human body was downgrading the quads in _Stammi Vicino_ into triples. Victor picked his jaw off the floor and stopped warning Yuuri about over-training after that.

Meanwhile, he made his own form of progress: the sweater was nearly done. After four months of sore hands, tearing his hair out, and accidentally stabbing himself, he had a front panel, back panel, and one and three-fourths of a sleeve. He slipped a couple of rubber bands onto his needles to prevent the stitches from falling off. With a smile, he packed the entire project into his briefcase alongside his paperwork.

The competition took place at a medium-large rink in Fukuoka, an hour’s drive from Hasetsu. An hour of Nishigori driving, to be exact. Victor did not have a license to drive in Japan. Yuuri was too distracted to do it. Minako was, in her words, “banned from driving after the yakuza incident.” Yuuko and Yuuri’s family all had to work that day. So it was Takeshi Nishigori who took them to Fukuoka, and Minako who rode in the passenger seat, turning up J-rock bands on the radio.

Victor and Yuuri checked in at their hotel the day before the competition began. Though it was close to Hasetsu, Victor had insisted. The last thing Yuuri needed was for his legs to cramp up or his nerves to fray because he had to sit still for an hour before he skated. Nor did he need to be tired from traveling when the press arrived.

And the press _did_ arrive. Not as many as in international circuits, but more than Victor expected. He and Yuuri were soon separated from Minako and Nishigori, and Victor waved the journalists off with his trademark smile and a few lines about his confidence in Yuuri’s ability. It was only Regionals, after all, though he didn’t say that out loud. For a Grand Prix finalist like Yuuri, it should be easy.

“Victor,” Yuuri whispered to him once they had a moment alone, “I’ve told you this many times. At last year’s Nationals, I bombed _everything_.”

Yuuri, evidently, did not share Victor’s confidence. Hmm. Victor would have to do something about that.

“Excuse me for a minute,” he said, and left Yuuri to Minako and Nishigori’s company.

He wove through crowds of reporters and spectators, stopping a few times when people asked him for his autograph. He made a quick trip back to the hotel, opened his suitcase, and took out his emergency suit.

There might have been more onlookers than expected, but Victor Nikiforov was _always_ prepared. A suit was not just a suit. It reflected intention and professionalism. His appearance didn’t merely affect himself anymore; it also reflected on Yuuri, and how Yuuri would be treated by sponsors and the media.

Hasetsu was a small town, and after a few weeks, the novelty of Victor’s presence had worn off. People no longer took pictures of him for going about his daily life. He had become too accustomed to dressing down there. So for the first time in weeks, Victor did his hair and makeup. Had this routine always taken so long?

He returned to the rink, with both his clothes and his attitude changed. He set his shoulders back, raised his chin, and strode in with what he privately called the “Lilia Baranovskaya Murder Walk.” It was perfect for turning people’s heads and making them get out of the way. He didn’t have her murder-face down, but that was alright. The squeals of his fans, and Yuuri’s stunned face, were more than good enough.

But when the other competitors arrived, they passed by Victor and immediately flocked toward Yuuri. They were led by a volcano in the shape of a teenager: Kenjiro Minami.

No. Not a volcano. Volcanoes were calmer than this. Minami was more like a ring-tailed lemur, eyes perpetually amazed, feet skittering everywhere. The slightest nod from Yuuri brought him to tears of joy, while being casually ignored just brought him to tears. The poor kid had a crush visible from space.

Or at least, it was visible to everyone except Yuuri. Part of Victor wanted to pull Minami to the side, and gently tell him to stop embarrassing himself. At least the kid had good taste in figure skating idols.

Yuuri finished the short program twenty-eight points ahead of every other contender. Not bad. Minami looked like he could faint from the sheer joy of watching Yuuri skate. But Yuuri did better than this in training all the time, and could have easily broken the hundred-point mark. He was leagues ahead of everyone else here. His poor showing at Nationals last year had been an aberration. And, from the way Minami burst in during Yuuri’s interview,  _he_ knew it, too.

“Yuuri! Did you see me? Did you see my performance?”

Yuuri jolted, and rubbed his arm. “Um...”

“I even used an outfit based on yours!” He showed off a costume blatantly inspired by Yuuri’s old _Lohengrin_ routine. “What do you think?”

“Oh, that’s...” Yuuri winced, “a costume from my dark past.”

It _had_ been one of his more immature programs. But Minami reddened and raised his voice.

“Don’t make fun of me for looking up to you!”

Yuuri stepped back, hands in front of his chest. Minami jabbed a finger towards him.

“I’m gonna give tomorrow’s free skate everything I’ve got! Please give it everything you’ve got, too!”

Then, noticing eight cameras pointed at him, he startled and scurried off. Yuuri shook his head, staring at the hallway Minami left through.

“What was that about?”

“He thought you were looking down on him,” Victor said.

“Me?” Yuuri scratched his head. “He beat me by ten places at Nationals last year. Why would he care what I think?”

If not for the cameras and years of practice, Victor would have face-palmed.

The next day, at the rinkside, Yuuri tied his skates with shaking hands. Victor leaned toward him and spoke in a low voice.

“Yuuri? What’s on your mind?”

“The quads.” One of the laces pulled too tight, and he hissed. He started over. “I know my quad Salchow’s been improving, but...”

“If you’re worried, then leave them out.”

“What?”

“It’s still early in the season,” Victor said. “None of your competitors can land any quads. So focus on the parts of the routine you’re comfortable with, and you can add the quads in later events.”

In response, Yuuri frowned, and said nothing. He handed Victor his skate guards, and was about to head for the ice when a chirpy voice called out.

“Yuuri!”

Minami bounded up to them, vibrating like he’d drunk his body weight in espresso. Yuuri walked past him, face blank, and skated out for warm-up as if Minami didn’t even exist.

Victor stared. Yuuri could be shy sometimes, and Victor wasn’t too fond of Minami either, but that was _cold._

Beside him, Minami wilted, and even his fiery tufts of hair seemed to droop. Victor watched him from the corner of his eye. The boy was, quite frankly, a well-meaning nuisance. He was loud, melodramatic, attention-hungry, and constantly seeking Yuuri’s approval even though Yuuri couldn’t care less.

...Not all that different from Victor, actually.

Victor froze, fingers tightening around Yuuri’s skate guards. If his and Yuuri’s roles had been reversed, Yuuri the legend and Victor the hopeful student, Victor would probably have acted just like Minami. In many ways, he already did. Hadn’t he also thrown his heart out on display, only to get brushed off time and again?

Victor was a grown man. He could handle rejection. But Minami was seventeen, and a _fan,_ and he slunk off to the corner like a scolded puppy.

(Beneath Yurio’s tough-guy act, is that how he had felt when Victor forgot his promise and left for Japan?)

(God _damn_ it.)

The media-smile slipped from Victor’s face, and though a whole squadron of journalists was watching from above the rink, he let it fade. When Yuuri returned to his side and picked up the water bottle, Victor watched him in stony silence.

It took a few seconds for Yuuri to notice. “...What?”

“Minami was trying to get your attention.”

“Oh. Huh.”

“So. Are you going to talk to him?”

Yuuri glanced away, fidgeting with his bottle cap. “Honestly, it’s hard enough just to get myself on the ice right now.”

Victor’s hands tightened on the rink barrier, and the pit of his stomach grew cold. True, that was a problem for Yuuri, as Victor had witnessed firsthand. His mind flashed back to the day he’d waited all morning at their rink, until the dull knowledge that Yuuri wasn’t coming sunk in. The image of himself morphed into Yurio, alone on the ice when he realized Victor had left him behind without a word. Then Yurio became Minami, and Victor couldn’t hold his tongue.

“Yuuri. If you can’t motivate others, how can you hope to motivate yourself?”

Yuuri’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened to protest.

Victor slammed the skate guards down on the rink wall. “I’m disappointed in you.”

He walked away, and took a seat on the other side of the skaters’ area. He crossed his arms and looked in the other direction, not caring who had overheard. Yuuri gaped after him, but didn’t try to approach.

Victor sighed. Yuuri had avoided him back when they were picking music for the very program Yuuri was going to skate today. Like Minami, Victor had taken avoidance as a rejection. It wasn’t, then or now, but that didn’t make it any less hurtful.

Hiroko was right. Sometimes, Yuuri needed someone to get him out of his own head.

Minami was the first to skate, and even from a distance, his nerves were obvious. He fidgeted, and his skates clacked choppily on the ice. The crowd roared their encouragements—and, after a few seconds, another voice joined in, the loudest of all.

“Minami!” Yuuri shouted. “Good luck!”

Minami startled, his whole body almost lifting off the ice, and let out a noise that could only be called a _squee._ He barely managed to compose himself before the music started.

On the rink barrier, Yuuri slumped. He watched Minami’s routine this time, or at least part of it, before turning and walking away. He hung his head, shoulders slumping.

“Yuuri,” Victor said, quiet enough that only Yuuri heard as he walked past him.

Yuuri froze for a moment, then looked up. Victor sent him a small smile.

“That was kind of you.”

Yuuri swallowed. He stood a little taller, cheeks flushing. “I’m going to get some air, okay?”

“Where shall I find you, when it’s your turn?”

“Don’t worry.” His hands were clenched, but his voice was firm. “I’ll be here.”

Victor nodded, and let Yuuri pass, watching as Yuuri left through the side-door. For a moment, the flash of a sunbeam outlined his form, and the confident stride of a dancer. Victor’s shoulders relaxed, and he closed his eyes, committing the image to memory.

He glanced back at the ice. He had to admit, Minami had a knack for showmanship. In fact, his knockoff of the _Lohengrin_ costume, embarrassingly “edgy” as it was, wasn’t all that different from Victor’s skintight bondage-inspired outfit from his teenage years. The same one _Yuuri_ now wore for _Eros._

...They were both terrible influences on the younger generation, weren’t they?

Minami flubbed a triple axel, and Victor winced for him. When the music faded, Victor was clapping with the rest of the audience, and he spotted Yuuri returning.

No, not just returning. It was the Lilia Baranovskaya Murder Walk.

* * *

Yuuri took gold, of course. But not before throwing Victor’s advice out the window.

Victor clutched Mini-Makkachin in his arms, smile gone, as Yuuri performed all three of the quads Victor had told him to cut. Yuuri could have taken it easy. But no, he was going to do what he pleased, even if he nearly got a concussion on the rink wall doing it. Where had he learned to be so contrary?

Yuuri finished the free skate with a flourish pointing directly at Victor. Ah.

Was it possible to honor someone and call them out at the same time? Wait, of course it was. If anyone could do it, Yuuri could.

Victor mentally cataloged his usual list of critiques. Item number one: Do not start a fight with the rink wall; the wall will win every time. Item number two: Don’t give your coach a heart attack. Item number three—

A massive roar burst from the crowd, and Victor shut his mouth. As a coach, he’d been watching for mistakes. But the audience cheered as loudly as if Yuuri had won the Grand Prix Final itself. The passion he’d thrown into his program had been both the reason he’d hit the rink wall, _and_ the reason why he captivated everyone in the building. The same passion had enthralled Victor, too, when he first saw the _Stammi Vicino_ video.

And people called _Victor_ dramatic. He smiled, shook his head, and let Mini-Makkachin sag in his arms. Critique could wait for another day.

Once the podium was put away and the gold stowed in Yuuri’s bag, the costume exchanged for a suit, Yuuri pulled Victor into a side room.

“Would you mind going back home early?”

Victor blinked. “Don’t we have a press conference to do?”

“Yes, but,” Yuuri glanced away, “Makkachin will need to be fed soon, won’t she?”

Victor stared at him. “Hiroko knows what Makkachin’s dinner requirements are. She’ll be fine.”

“Well, yes, um.” Yuuri fidgeted with his lapels. “It’s the first time you’ve been away from home in months. What if Makkachin’s lonely?”

Victor’s lips pressed in to a thin line. That was a low blow. And it didn’t sound like whatever was really on Yuuri’s mind.

“Yuuri, what’s this about? Is something wrong?”

Yuuri stepped back and held up his hands. “No, no! Nothing is wrong. It’s just, um, it’s been a long day, and I thought you’d want to be getting back by now.”

“I’m your coach. My place is at your side.”

_“You’re playing at being a coach in Japan?”_

Victor kept his hands still, allowing only the slightest tightening of his fingers on his jacket hem.

“Besides,” he said, “the conference will be promoted more on social media if I’m visible, which will increase your name recognition and make it easier for you to get more sponsorship contracts.”

Something seemed to dull in Yuuri’s eyes, and he looked at Victor with...surprise, perhaps? No. Confusion?

“Victor, that’s—” He stopped, and shook his head. “It’s fine. I mean, you don’t have to stay here just because of the money.”

Disappointment. Yuuri was disappointed in him. Victor had said something wrong, and now Yuuri was pulling away again.

“It’s not just that,” Victor said. “I’m here for you. As a coach, and as a friend.”

“I know. But this is—I want to do this by myself. The press conference, I mean.”

Yuuri, slamming the door to his room in Victor’s face. Yuuri, avoiding Victor outside of practice. Yuuri skipping practice entirely. Victor, pulling forward when Yuuri pulled back, always misstepping, trying to be what Yuuri wanted and guessing wrong every time.

_“Cut it out already.”_

Was this about him scolding Yuuri about Minami? Or when he wouldn’t let Yuuri hug him, to keep Yuuri’s bloody nose from staining Victor’s suit? Or perhaps when he applied Yuuri’s lip balm for him, in full view of the media? Yuuri hadn’t seemed to mind, but then, there were all those other skaters watching them...

_“He’ll never be anyone’s coach!”_

“Victor?”

Yuuri’s voice snapped him back to the present. Yuuri’s fingers curled around his collar.

“Are you upset with me? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. You can stay if you want.”

Victor blinked, then put his smile back on.

“No, of course not. I was merely thinking about how I can be a better coach to you in the future. I made some mistakes today.”

An apology should help. Acknowledge wrongdoing, show remorse, promise to make amends. Whatever he’d done that disappointed Yuuri, this should start mending the damage.

But Yuuri’s frown only deepened. He lay a hand on Victor’s shoulder.

“Victor, you did great today.”

Victor’s smile fell off. “I did?”

“I was so stuck in my own head I forgot about Minami’s feelings. You reminded me that other people have insecurities, too.” He studied Victor’s face, and corner of his lip turned up. “I needed to hear that.”

A faint flutter rose up in Victor’s chest, shoulder burning where Yuuri held him, and he couldn’t have moved even if he’d tried.

“Oh.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. Yuuri stepped closer, and Victor’s eyes barely widened before Yuuri’s arms were around him.

“You’re a good coach.”

Victor froze, hot and cold and electrified, Yuuri’s chin on his shoulder, Yuuri’s hands on his back, and at this range Victor could _smell_ him and—no, stop that, Yuuri liked him as a _coach_ and that was all. He lifted his hands slowly, leaving plenty of time for Yuuri to step away. Yuuri didn’t.

“Thank you,” Victor said.

“Of course.”

They held each other then, while the departing audience and gathering reporters murmured beyond the door. Yuuri pulled back slightly, still in Victor’s arms. His gaze flickered to Victor’s lips.

“The press conference. It’s something I want to do for my own sake.”

“How do you mean?”

“I want to be more confident. To open up more. I can’t do that if I’m always relying on you to speak for me. You’re so good with the camera, it gravitates to you, even if I...” He shook his head, and pulled away completely. “It’s not that you’re doing anything wrong. It’s that I want to get better.”

Victor crossed his arms, a poor attempt to hold in the warmth from Yuuri’s touch. He managed to smile.

“Well, the first thing you need to do, is not wear a tie that blinds the cameraman.”

Yuuri’s lip twitched, and he patted what looked like a dead Smurf hide hanging from his neck. “This is my favorite tie.”

“Your favorite sweater is a—”

He stopped short of saying “six-colored crime against the visual spectrum,” but not before Yuuri raised an eyebrow at him, and a pang of guilt stabbed at Victor’s stomach.

Yuuri snorted. “I’m going to wear this tie, and you can’t stop me.”

Victor’s stomach flipped over in relief. “Yuuri, _please_.”

“The next train to Hasetsu leaves in twenty minutes. You better hurry.”

He squeezed Victor’s wrist, and his smile only widened at Victor’s whine of protest.

“I’ll be home around midnight. Promise me you’ll watch the conference?”

Victor sighed. “If you insist.”

After he and Yuuri parted ways, Minako and Nishigori offered him a ride back to Hasetsu. Victor politely declined, opting to take the train. Minako raised an eyebrow at that.

“It’s not any faster, you know. There’s no advantage of it over a car.”

“No, but it would be good for me to learn the transit system better. I’ll meet up with you at Yu-Topia.”

Minako rolled her eyes. “At least put your bags in the trunk. I don’t know why you insist on bringing so much luggage.”

“You’re the best, Minako.”

“Yes, I am.”

As she and Nishigori drove away, Victor set off for the station. He now carried only one bag with him. A bag filled with needles, yarn, and nine-tenths of a sweater.

He grinned. There was _one_ advantage of taking the train.

He sighed happily to himself on the ride back to Hasetsu. Although it was a shame Yuuri had to stay for the press conference, it meant Victor got a good hour of uninterrupted knitting time. He ignored the odd looks he got from the other passengers. The sooner the sweater was done, the sooner he could hide it in Yuuri’s closet and pretend this mess had never happened.

A little girl in the seat across from him stared at him, and her mother whispered something that was probably a reprimand. He smiled at them both, and lifted his hands out of his lap so they could see the stitches better. The mother widened her eyes, then smiled back. The girl leaned into her mother’s side and watched him work.

His eyes flitted back down to his needles. Wait. Had his hands stopped moving during that exchange? They hadn’t. He hadn’t even been looking!

Victor closed his eyes, felt for the stitches with his fingers, and tried knitting a few of them. A quick peek revealed that yes, he’d done it! It was like he was a _real_ knitter now.

He lifted his gaze and watched the scenery through the windows, slouching easily in his seat. The whole time, his hands moved, steady and sure. The yarn obeyed him, the stitches moved smoothly over the needles, and even when he dropped a stitch he could fix it in a second.

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself seaming the pieces together, sneaking in to Yuuri’s room like James Bond, and grinning smugly when Yuuri wore it. Victor would have to have _his_ phone ready to capture the shock on Mari’s face. It was so, so tempting to tell Yuuri outright, just to see his reaction, but that would mean revealing the destruction of the original as well. Oh, well. Victor would have to be a ninja-knitter in secret.

He finished the last row with a flourish, and held the finished sleeve up to the light to admire it. It would have been nice to take out the other pieces, too. But the front panel had the clown’s face all over it, and he wasn’t about to traumatize the other passengers. He stowed the knitting in its bag under his seat, and stretched his muscles.

Everything was going perfectly. Yuuri would eat his first pork cutlet bowl since Victor had arrived. Victor would finish the sweater in a few days. And within weeks, they’d be in China, back in the international circuit where Yuuri belonged.

Well, maybe things weren’t quite perfect. There was the fact that Yuuri didn’t like Victor romantically. But that wound had closed over the past four months. It only ached now when the sunlight caught Yuuri’s eyes just so, or when Yuuri hugged him, or when his face lit up at Victor’s praise during training. Or when Makkachin slept in Yuuri’s bed at night, leaving Victor to sleep alone.

Oh, what Victor would have given to trade places with his dog...

He shook his head, and chuckled ruefully. His former rinkmates would have never let him hear the end of it if they knew he was thinking like that. They probably _were_ saying those things, in fact. But they’d have to pry him away from Yuuri with a crowbar if they wanted him back.

He indulged himself by daydreaming about Yuuri’s arms around him, and only the mother’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality when the train stopped. He looked around, thanked her, and got off at his station.

A taxi would have been faster, but it was a beautiful day, so he strolled back across Pine Grove Bridge to Yu-Topia, hands in his pockets and a spring in his step. A seagull soared overhead, calling out for its mate. He watched it fly out towards the bay.

“Good luck, little guy.”

A few months ago, Victor would have hung his head, and lamented what he didn’t have. A year ago, he’d done exactly that, then built a record-breaking skating routine out of it. It had been the peak of his career, his most acclaimed performance yet. Today, he had stood on the sidelines, a footnote in another hero’s story, and Yuuri’s beaming smile his only reward.

Today was better.

The Katsuki family cheered when he came in. Beside them sat Minako and the Nishigoris.

“Hey, Nikiforov!” Minako called. “When was the press conference scheduled?”

“Should be any minute now,” Victor said, removing his shoes.

Hiroko’s face lit up. “Toshiya! We have to move the tables again!”

There was a flurry of activity as the adults rearranged the furniture back into place for the watch party. Lutz, Loop and Axel returned to coloring a banner that read “Congratulations on Gold, Yuuri!!!” Victor smiled at the sight.

“Back in a moment,” he said. “I’ve got to change clothes.”

“Yes, yes,” Yuuko said, turning on the screen. “Hurry back!”

In his room, he did change out of his suit and back into the onsen robe. But that wasn’t the only reason he came back here. From the depths of Tchaikovsky, he retrieved a print-out. His smile widened as he re-read the instructions for seaming sweater pieces together. Everything was ready now. He reached for his knitting bag, to test how the pieces would fit.

The knitting bag was gone.

Victor glanced around the room. He frowned. He was too careful to set it down anywhere else in Yu-Topia, so where could it...

He froze, and the blood drained from his face. The _train_.

The floor swayed beneath him, so he eased himself onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling. He remembered knitting on the train. He did not remember reaching under his seat to carry it out. On the walk back, he hadn’t carried anything, except in his pockets.

Victor rubbed his forehead, and forced himself to breathe. Four months of work. Gone. Unless he got very, very lucky with the lost-and-found.

He pulled up the website for the train system, and cursed his poor knowledge of Japanese. His translator app managed, badly, and he skimmed the site map. Even with a generous interpretation of the semi-intelligible links, he couldn’t find a lost-and-found page. Strange. Japan was usually so thoughtful about finding and returning lost items. But then, there’d been no identifying material with the sweater, so even if they found it, they wouldn’t know who to—

“Vicchan! Come watch with us!”

Hiroko’s voice across the hall hit him like a stab to the chest.

Four months. Four months of trying to replicate her work. Four months from today would be January. By that time, Yuuri would know that his favorite sweater had gone missing. He would ask if anyone had seen it. He would get the rest of the family searching. And sooner or later, they would realize it was gone, and Yuuri would be upset.

God, Victor didn’t even want to imagine how Hiroko would feel. She’d worked on the original sweater for even longer, for a son that she wouldn’t see again for five years.

Victor’s eyes darted to the jade plant on his nightstand. Several of its leaves had dropped off, and the others had lost their ruby edges. She’d be disappointed in him for that.

“Vicchan?”

He cleared his throat, and fought to keep his voice steady. “Coming!”

Victor checked his face in the mirror to make sure his smile was back in place. He rejoined everyone in the lounge, and sat down slightly away from the rest of the group. Makkachin ambled over, and he hugged her to his chest.

Even if Yuuri had been speaking English, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Around Victor, the murmurs of the Katsuki family faded to noise, Fukuoka felt like a hundred years away, and even through a television screen, he couldn’t meet Yuuri’s earnest gaze. His eyes dropped, down to Yuuri’s neck, where he once more saw that awful excuse for a tie.

Victor wanted to burn it.


	14. The Conspiracy

“Victor, you idiot.”

Slam.

“You useless, stupid, forgetful idiot.”

Slam.

His beer glass rattled from the force of his fist on the table, and Victor cracked open one eyelid. A brief surge of spite urged him to shove the glass off the table entirely. It would shatter and spill everywhere, another thing he’d broken.

He slumped forward, head pillowed on his arms. The arms of his sunglasses dug into his ears, and he couldn’t see much through them at this hour. He adjusted them, but didn’t take them off. The last thing he needed was for one of Nagahama Ramen’s other patrons to recognize him.

If they did, they’d probably take a picture. Ha. The Hero of Russia, Victor Nikiforov, hiding in the darkest corner of a chain restaurant and crying into cheap beer. Dinara would get an aneurysm.

No, wait. He didn’t have Dinara anymore. She quit. And, honestly, he couldn’t blame her.

His hands ached with the memory of yarn and needles, threads softer than silk rubbing over callouses where he’d pricked himself too many times. His body had felt so light when he worked on the second sleeve. He had been so, so close to finishing. And he had given up so much for it.

Dinara. She’d quit because of Merkin Man, and that incident happened because of Mari, who could only make Victor do things because he wanted to keep the sweater project a secret. He’d wrecked his brand at the same time. His hands, arms, back and shoulders had all flared with pain, and bags had formed under his eyes from late-night knitting sessions. He’d even swallowed his pride and begged Minako for help.

Then he’d lost the stupid thing on a train.

Victor’s gut twisted at the thought of Yuuri. What would his face look like, when he realized his mother’s hard work was gone? Would it be the shock he’d worn, when Victor had first arrived in Hasetsu? Would he hide under his blankets again and refuse to come out? Or would he shove it under grim determination, with only flubbed jumps to hint at the storm inside?

Victor hissed between his teeth, and watched a drop of condensation trickle down the glass, pooling on the table top. His eyes were dry. Maybe the glass was crying for him. Another droplet ran down the side, glittering in the low light like a diamond.

Ten years ago, when Victor was just another figure skater, he’d lost his mother’s wedding ring. Well, not exactly lost. He’d had a string of bad competitions and lost most of his sponsors. His landlady wouldn’t accept any more late rent payments. With nothing else of value but his skates, he pawned the ring, promising to come back for it. And he did, the next time he won gold, but by then the pawn shop had been bought, and all the stock had been sold.

Victor rested his chin on crossed arms, and stared into the glass.

If he made Yuuri feel the same way Victor had back then, Victor would never forgive himself.

And the worst part was, he knew better. He was supposed to _be_ better. He had already forgotten something critical and let down someone he cared about this year: Yurio.

One would think, that after that fiasco, Victor would have learned. But no, he got complacent again. He had let his head float up to the clouds, smitten with Yuuri and dreams, and forgotten his labor of the past four months. Even now, he was as responsible as a ferret with a blowtorch.

Yurio had paid the price for it. Victor had vowed to avoid repeating that with Yuuri, to buckle down and be absolutely perfect for Yuuri’s sake, both as a coach and as a person. And yet—

And yet he argued with Yuuri at Regionals, spent as much time on his own vanity as he had on promoting Yuuri, and sidestepped when Yuuri reached out to him for a hug. No wonder Yuuri had sent him away early. Why would anyone want to share a press conference with Victor after all that? Perhaps Victor should have been grateful that Yuuri humored him as much as he had.

It had seemed like they were getting along so well. Over the past months, Victor had finally let his media smile slip away, and told the Yuuri things he’d never told anyone else. His fears. His regrets. How much effort he took to look effortless. At the time, Yuuri listened, and seemed to welcome it. But what if that was mere politeness? What if Victor had shared too much of himself, showed the wrong facets of his personality, the flecks and faults in the diamond?

Maybe this was Yuuri’s way of saying, no, he didn’t need to see those parts. Those parts were boring, and sad, and nobody wanted to hang out with a killjoy. Besides, when people saw Victor’s faults, they got angry at him. Yakov, Mari and Minako scolded him. Dinara quit. Yuuri was too nice to do those things; he would drop hints instead.

And Victor, with a sinking feeling in his gut that couldn’t entirely be from alcohol, was starting to get the message.

But he was so, so tired of smiling for the camera, of putting on that mask, and he didn’t know if he could bear going back to that lifestyle. Tonight he’d hidden his hair under a hat and his face behind shades, and found the quietest corner of the restaurant, all so no one would see him like this.

He dropped his forehead onto his arms and closed his eyes. Around him, the restaurant echoed with Japanese voices, the clatter of the kitchen, and a pair of heels click-clacking on the floor.

He’d smile, like people wanted him to. Eventually. But...not right now.

The click-clacking grew louder.

Victor would be Yuuri’s proud and devoted coach tomorrow. Tonight, he’d just be—

“Victor.”

He blinked open his eyes, saw a woman’s heels pointing toward him beside the table, and groggily lifted his head.

Bearing down on him was the thunderous gaze of Minako Okukawa.

She wrinkled her nose, and slid as elegantly as one could into a booth sticky with vinyl and soy sauce. Her hair and makeup were immaculate as always. She leaned forward with hands clasped, nose in Victor’s face.

“What are you doing here? Everyone is decorating Yu-Topia for the championship celebration tomorrow. Mari is looking for you.”

Victor shut his eyes. He ran his fingers through his hair. It knocked off the hat he’d forgotten he was wearing, sending it tumbling to the floor. He blinked at it, and leaned down to pick it up.

Minako raised an eyebrow. “Come on. You don’t have to help, but you could at least not go running off like...Huh.”

Victor pulled his hat back on. He slumped, cheek on one hand, and traced circles into the table’s speckled counter. Across from him, Minako shifted. The vinyl squeaked.

“Hey,” she said, lowering her voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Can you even see out of those things?”

His eyes flickered up at her. “What?”

She raised an arm, slowly moved forward, then lifted the sunglasses off his face. He blinked at the sudden light, dim though it was at this hour, and rubbed his forehead.

“I didn’t want to be recognized.”

Minako hummed, and set the sunglasses down beside him. She rested her chin on her hands.

“Sometimes,” she murmured, “I drown my sorrows, too. How many have you had?”

“Sorrows?”

“Drinks.”

He pointed to his glass. “Just that one.”

“And how many times did you refill it?”

“I don't know how to ask for a refill in Japanese.”

Her mouth quirked up, and she let out a snort. Victor watched another bead trickle down the glass.

“Didn’t think the Russian would be a lightweight,” she said.

“Didn’t think I’d lose my knitting on a train.”

He slapped a hand over his mouth as soon as the words were out. Great. As if she didn’t already think he was flighty and irresponsible. Minako probably never misplaced her knitting projects.

Her eyebrows rose, then she slouched, smiling sadly.

“Ah. That would do it. It happens to every knitter, sooner or later.”

Victor leaned back in his seat and rubbed his temples.

“I thought I had it. I finished the last row while on the train, so I should have remembered.”

“Last row of what?”

“A sweater.”

Her jaw dropped. “You were knitting an _intarsia sweater_ for your first project?”

“Yes?”

“Only you, Nikiforov,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Last row of what part?”

“I only had to sew the pieces together.”

She groaned, and slumped forward onto the table, pounding her fist.

“Arrrgh! You were so close!”

“I know. I was going to ask you about it the next day. I thought everything would work out.”

“God, Victor. That’s horrible. But, if I may say something hopeful?”

“Please. I need hope right now.”

She propped herself up on her elbows, and set her mouth in a firm line.

“I told you. Nothing in knitting is ever un-fixable. You can get more yarn, and do it again, and do it better. People’s first few projects always look awful, anyway.”

He shuddered. “I don’t want it to look awful. It has to be perfect. Yuuri deserves something perfect.”

“This was for Yuuri?!”

Her shriek made him wince, and several other patrons glanced their way. Minako glared at them.

“Nothing to see here, go back to your ramen!”

The other customers hurriedly jerked away, leaving Victor and Minako alone again.

“But seriously,” she said. “You were making Yuuri a sweater?”

“I was trying to, anyway.”

“Don’t you know about the...” She stopped herself.

“Know what?”

Minako held her hand up to her chin, and looked off to the side. She crossed her arms, uncrossed them, and sighed.

“The boyfriend sweater curse.”

Victor blinked at her, annoyed. “I _wish_ he was my boyfriend.”

Minako lay her hands on the table, and stared back at him.

“Weren’t you listening during the press conference broadcast?”

“What does that have to do with anything? And no, it was in Japanese.”

“Oh, for god’s sake...” She muttered and rubbed her hands against her temples. “When Yuuri gets back, make him translate it for you. I am this close to locking you two in my studio overnight, just to get it over with.

“Anyway,” she said, “don’t worry about the sweater thing. Yuuri won’t be upset. He’ll be flattered that you were making something for him.”

“No, no, no.” Victor held his head in his hands. “He can’t know.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll be sad.”

Minako’s eye twitched.

“Okay,” she said, and took a deep breath. “Why would Yuuri be sad that you knitted him a sweater?”

Victor slouched lower in his seat, and folded his arms into himself.

“Because Makkachin destroyed the original.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was an accident! I didn’t think she’d do it! She hardly ever chews on things!” He rubbed his temples. “I couldn’t let Yuuri find out, because he loves that sweater, and his mom made it. And I don’t want her to be sad either.”

Minako grabbed his shoulders. “Hey, hey, slow down! Accidents happen. He won’t blame you for something your dog did.”

Victor cringed, and averted his eyes. Minako furrowed her brows.

“What did you do?”

“I might have also said some bad things about the sweater before the accident.”

Her fingernails dug into his skin. “Victor Nikiforov...”

“I didn’t know Hiroko had made it! I wouldn’t have said that if I knew!”

“You _never_ insult a gift that is hand-knitted and made with love. Especially not a sweater, which takes months and months of time and labor.”

He nodded miserably. “I didn’t know.”

“Which sweater was it, by the way? She’s made several.”

“The clown one.”

Minako’s eye twitched again. “What.”

“The clown—”

“No, I heard you.” She dropped her hands from him and collapsed back down in her seat. “God, that thing was an eyesore.”

Victor rubbed his aching shoulder. “It was.”

“I take back everything I said. Makkachin was doing our country a national service. I love Hiroko to death, but...”

Victor relaxed a little. “It stared into my soul every time I looked at it.”

“Exactly. I’d offer to fix it for you, but frankly, you couldn’t pay me enough.”

Victor couldn’t blame her. It was too wrecked to repair, anyway.

“Nikiforov. Breathe. I know how hard it is to lose a project. But you have to remember that it’s just a sweater.”

“It’s not just a sweater.”

She sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. What is it?”

“It’s,” Victor started. He swallowed. “It’s Yuuri. His smile. Yuuri should always be smiling. But half the time, when I try, it seems like I’m causing trouble for him. And maybe I am, because it’s not his fault, not really. He didn’t mean it when he—he was drunk. So I tried to put my feelings away and be what he wanted. But we argued at the competition and he asked me to leave—”

“Woah, woah, slow down!” Minako held up her hands. “You’re slurring in Russian.”

“Sorry.”

“English, please?”

Victor blinked. His thoughts were a rat’s nest, going in all different directions and nowhere at the same time. He backtracked to the last one, and couldn’t hold on to the others.

“The competition.”

“Yes...?” Minako prompted. “The competition. Where Yuuri just won gold.”

“He sent me back early. We argued. He said he wasn’t upset, but—”

“Watch the press conference, you dolt! I mean, get it translated.”

“I promised I’d coach him. To be the perfect coach. But it’s been five months and I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

He slumped, head on one arm. The lights of Nagahama Ramen blurred above him, and glinted in the puddle on the table. Minako lay her hand on his elbow, and shook him.

“Look, it’s getting late. A cheap ramen joint is no place for a heart to heart. Why don’t I take you home?”

Victor didn’t move. “Mmf.”

“Unless you want your back to hate you in the morning, I suggest you get to a bed. I did not spend four months overseeing Yuuri’s cross-training so you could set a bad example with improper lumbar support.”

“I’m not training. I’m running away to be a ramen bowl in the countryside.”

Minako stood up, grabbed his arm, and bodily hauled him out of the booth, half-carrying him over her shoulder.

“You can walk, or I can carry you. Your choice.”

He pulled away, and brushed off his clothes. “I’ll walk.”

“Good boy. Now come on.”

She led the way back to Yu-Topia, frequently tossing him looks over her shoulder.

“I swear,” she muttered, “I thought Yuuri was the insecure one here.”

They arrived at Yu-Topia, and Victor was about to walk through the gate when Minako pulled him to the side.

“Let’s go round the back,” she said. “Yuuri will be here soon. We don’t need him wondering why his coach is moping.”

Victor nodded. Making Yuuri worry was the last thing he wanted right now.

She took him through a side-entrance, away from the noise and lights, and they made it to his room without tipping anyone off. Minako parted from him then, and returned with Mari in tow. Mari waved at him, then glanced back to Minako.

“What’s wrong with him? Yuuri won.”

“He’s upset because he lost the sweater he was knitting for Yuuri.”

“That’s it?”

“Have you ever spent four months making something by hand to give to your crush, only to lose it at the last minute?”

“I don't get crushes, but point taken.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “How many drinks have you had?”

“One.”

“Aren’t you Russian?”

“I’m drunk on knitting and sadness.”

Mari rolled her eyes. “Go to sleep. Things always look better in the morning.”

Victor doubted that. Morning would not bring his sweater back. He lay down, and drifted off to the sound of Mari and Minako’s voices in the hall.

* * *

He woke the next morning to find Minako looming at the foot of his bed like a gargoyle. He stared at her for a moment, then pulled the covers over his face. Minako ripped them back off.

“Oh, no you don’t. I know your training schedule. You’re a morning person.”

“Mrmnph.”

Victor covered his eyes with one hand. His head ached and his arms felt like rocks. Her foot tapped impatiently on the floor.

“Or would you rather discuss what to do about the sweater _after_ Yuuri gets up?”

“Yuuri’s back?”

“He got home late last night. I told him you got drunk early and had to go to bed.”

Victor’s eyes shot open, and he scrambled up. “Thanks for covering for me.” He blinked a little more awake. “Wait, what are you doing in my room?”

“What do you _think_ I'm doing here?” Minako huffed. “Your dog wrecked Yuuri’s sweater, you tried to replace the sweater, you lost the replacement.”

Victor sat back, head clunking against the wall. He winced at the burst of pain in his skull.

“Don’t remind me.”

“Oh? Thinking of giving up on it?”

“What else can I do?”

“You could check the lost and found,” she said. “But don't bother. Mari's already on it.”

He jerked. “Don't tell me she went all the way to the station—”

“God, no. She has work today.” She stuck her head out the door. “He's awake! Any progress?”

Mari walked in, cell phone at her ear. She closed the door behind her, and held up a finger for silence. She spoke to someone on the other end in solemn Japanese. After a pause, she nodded, said goodbye, and hung up.

“Victor,” she said, pocketing her phone. “Morning.”

His eyes widened. “Were...were you actually talking to the train authority?”

“After slogging through twenty minutes of phone trees and holding, yes.” She sighed, and rubbed her forehead. “They do have a lost and found, but didn't get any knitting yesterday. Sorry.”

“No, that's...” He bowed as best he could while sitting in bed. “Thank you for trying.”

She waved it away. “It's nothing.”

Victor swallowed. Mari got up even earlier than he did, and had little time in the mornings before she had to prepare for work. She'd probably skipped breakfast to fight an automated system for his sake, only to reach a dead end. It was a wonder she didn't throw the phone across the room.

Minako leaned forward and poked him.

“Chin up, Nikiforov. In knitting, there’s almost always a second chance. Get more of the yarn and remake it.”

Victor winced, and looked away. “Discontinued.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s been discontinued. The ginger, and the puce. They’re not being made anymore.”

Minako shrieked. “What?! What yarn company was this? Do they have any stock left?”

He held his head in his hands, wincing at the volume. “It was an indie brand. No stock.”

“Argh!” She slapped her hands to her scalp. “I _hate_ it when they do that!”

Mari pulled out a cigarette. “What’s the big deal? Can’t you—”

“No smoking in the yarn room!” Minako snapped.

Mari cringed and put the cigarette away.

“Okay, okay. But seriously, can’t you just get some more orange and purple yarn?”

“Ginger and puce,” Minako said.

Mari held up her hands. “Fine, ginger and puce. But how hard can it be to get more yarn in the same colors?”

Victor and Minako shared a weary glance.

“You,” Minako said, “have no idea how many shades of orange and purple yarn there are.”

“And the colorway,” Victor added. “Most indie yarn is multicolor, and there’s not much selection for solids.”

Minako lay a hand on his shoulder. “Yes. It has to be the right thickness, and made of the right fiber, and have the same feel as the old stuff.”

“And Japan hardly even _has_ yarn,” Victor finished.

Minako shook him a little, and Victor rubbed his pounding head.

“We do too,” she said. “Not as much in the summer, but it _is_ there.”

“It’s much easier to find in Russia. More people knit there.”

“That’s because Russia is so cold even the squirrels wear thermal underwear.”

St. Petersburg wasn’t _that_ cold, but Victor was too wrecked to argue any further. The bottom line was that finding a suitable yarn all over again was near impossible.

Mari sighed. “I’ll take your word for it. So, what now?”

Victor grunted. Minako crossed her arms and looked down. The room fell silent with the weight of his predicament.

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself. “I came _so_ close. Four months of work, and it’s gone because I wasn’t paying attention. Stupid, stupid...”

Minako and Mari glanced at each other, over his head. Mari averted her eyes, shoulders slumping. Minako pulled out her phone.

“Victor,” she said. “Do you still have the labels for the yarn?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you go get them? I want to check something.”

After a moment, Victor sighed, then wrapped himself in the sheet toga-style and got out of bed. He turned over Tchaikovsky and opened the bottom.

“What the _hell_ ,” Mari muttered.

Victor blinked at her, hand deep inside the dead-musician-statue’s skull. “I needed a hiding place for the yarn.”

She gave a low whistle. Victor retrieved the yarn labels and handed them to Minako. She scrutinized them, hummed, and took photographs.

“Ooh, alpaca. This must have cost a lot.”

Victor shrugged. “I wanted the sweater to be soft.”

“That would do it.” She tapped away at her phone. “Alpaca stretches, so make sure you check your gauge before knitting a sweater with it. Knit a test square and measure how dense the stitches are.”

“Yes, I did that before.”

“Good. A-ha!” She brandished the phone screen at him. “F-S-O-T, the savior of knitters everywhere!”

“The what?”

“Ravelry has a function that lets people catalog their yarn stashes in its database. And they can select whether to offer their yarn _for sale or trade_ to other knitters. F-S-O-T.”

Victor and Mari stared at her.

“Okay?” Victor said.

“So even if a yarn company isn’t making a product anymore, the skeins may be floating around in private collections. And some of _those_ knitters may be willing to part with their yarns, for the right price.”

Victor’s eyes widened. “You mean I could...”

She handed the phone to him, and he scrolled down.

“Two people in Tokyo are willing to sell the ginger,” she said, hands on her hips. “And one person in Scotland. Check the puce while you’re at it. You’ll need to put the company name, the yarn line, and the colorway into Ravelry’s search engine.”

Victor gazed up at her in awe. “Ms. Okukawa, you are amazing.”

She smirked. “Go find your yarn, Nikiforov.”

Victor opened his laptop and looked up the yarns in Ravelry himself. He bookmarked all of the listings that looked promising. It would require a lot of money. Rare indie yarns were not cheap, and some of them would have to ship from the other side of the globe. But his heart was finally beating again, and he couldn’t keep the small smile off his face.

A few minutes later, with Minako and Mari’s help for translating, he had messaged every knitter on the list, very, very politely.

The prospect of knitting the entire sweater again made his whole body feel like lead weight. But it was better than the self-loathing that had consumed him last night. Maybe, just maybe, this would work out.

Then he saw the date on his computer screen. September already.

“When does it start getting cold here?”

“November,” Mari said. “You’ve got time.”

Victor ran a hand through his hair. “It took me four months to make the last one, and it wasn’t even finished. This is...not good.”

Minako tapped her chin. “Send me a full copy of your schedule. Everything, not just training.”

He blinked. “What? Why?”

“Just do it. I know you have one.”

She told him her email address, and with a confused look, he sent her a copy of his weekly schedule, complete with times for training Yuuri, walking Makkachin, and his own training times. Minako pulled Mari in close, holding up her phone, and murmured something in low Japanese.

Victor tilted his head. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

Minako waved vaguely at him, and Mari replied in the same language. Then they looked back at him with ominous smirks.

Victor held up his hands. “Should I be concerned?”

Mari snorted. “Not this time.”

“Alright,” Minako said, “you’ll need to wake an hour earlier every day, and go to bed an hour earlier. Or at least tell Yuuri you’ve gone to bed.”

Mari scratched her head. “I’ll get Yuuri on shower duty. If I tell him Dad’s back is acting up, he’ll jump at the chance to help.”

“Yes, yes. But make sure it’s after seven, because I need to hold him back later for ballet.”

Victor looked back and forth between them. “Has Yuuri been struggling with cross-training? He’s making good progress at the rink.”

“No, his training is fine.”

“Then why—”

“Also, you need to walk Makkachin after eight, so when he’s done with chores you’ll be busy.”

“But that cuts into my time with Yuuri.”

Minako gave him a level stare. “Any time you spend with Yuuri, is time _not_ spent on knitting.”

Victor’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“We’re running interference,” she said. “You’ve only got a month or two before the weather turns cold, and Yuuri looks for the sweater Makkachin ruined. It’s possible to knit a sweater by then, but not without a lot of free time.”

“Free time that I don’t have.”

“Exactly. You’ll have to use every minute you’ve got. And that means you need time away from Yuuri and anyone who doesn’t know.”

His face fell at that thought. “True.”

“So,” Mari said, “Minako and I will distract Yuuri from interrupting you too often. I’ll rope him into doing more chores at home. Minako will rearrange his ballet session times.”

Minako nodded. “It will be close, and you’ll have to knit like the wind, but you can probably finish before the first cold snap of the year.”

Victor sucked in a breath, and straightened up.

“That...that would be wonderful. Thank you.”

She scoffed. “Don't mention it. Knitters take care of our own.”

For a moment, Victor’s chest twinged, the same as it had when Hiroko had given him the jade plant. The same as when Yuuri wanted to use _Stammi Vicino_ for his exhibition skate. A quiet twinge, but warm, and it settled like a balm upon his soul.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s make Yuuri a sweater.”


	15. The Thief

Before practice that morning, Victor found himself slumped over the rink boards. His head throbbed like an elephant had danced the _Little Cossack_ on it, but at least his heart was lighter. He checked his phone again, despite the minuscule chance that the other knitters had replied to his messages in the past five minutes.

Nothing. Oh well. It was worth a shot.

Yuuko walked over and set a cup of coffee and two pills beside him.

“Ibuprofen?”

He accepted the offer with weak smile. “You’re an angel, Yuuko.”

“Mari texted me about the sweater.”

Victor nearly spat out his drink. He coughed a few times, and she patted him on the back.

“It’s okay!” she said. “I promise I won’t tell Yuuri. I think it’s really sweet.”

“Thank you.” He grimaced. “Though I have no clue how I’m supposed to knit an entire sweater, again, in two months. I couldn’t finish the last one in four.”

“I’ll help. I can rope Yuuri into babysitting the kids sometimes.”

“It still seems like a long shot.”

“Will you at least try?”

“Of course I will.”

She winked, and raised a finger to her lips.

“Just between us, that thing gave me the creeps.”

Victor couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Me too.”

The front door chimed, and Yuuri walked in, eyes darting back and forth. Yuuko ran over and hugged him.

“Yuuri! Congratulations! I knew you would take back the gold, I knew it!”

Yuuri patted her awkwardly, and stepped away. “Ah, thanks. It really is because of Victor, though.”

He met Victor’s gaze, and Victor smiled back at him. Some of the tightness in Yuuri’s shoulders lessened, but he blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. Victor set his coffee aside, and leaned against the rink boards.

“Ready for practice?”

“Um.” Yuuri glanced back at Yuuko. “There’s something else.”

Yuuko gasped, brought a hand to her mouth and nodded.

“Okay!” she said, running back to the employee room. “I’ll leave you to it! Good luck, Yuuri!”

Victor watched her go with a frown. Why would she say that now, with the competition long gone?

Yuuri fidgeted, staring at his hands. After a few seconds, Victor spoke.

“You’re wrong, you know.”

Yuuri froze. “What?”

“I’m not the reason you won yesterday. You made the Grand Prix Final without me, after all.”

Yuuri smiled and ducked his head. “You’re the reason I was able to come back. Did you see the press conference?”

Victor mentally winced. For him, that press conference would forever be tied up in self-flagellation over his own stupidity.

“I did.”

He forced himself to smile. He cast about for some kind of comment to make, which was difficult, since he’d barely heard a word of the event.

“You were very passionate.”

Yuuri looked away. “I was a coward.”

“What on earth makes you say that?”

“Because,” Yuuri said, taking a deep breath, “I couldn’t say it to your face.”

“So what? You were just talking about your programs, and your plans for this season. We’ve discussed that plenty of times.”

Yuuri paled, and his hand tightened in the folds of his shirt.

“Did no one translate it for you?”

“No?” Victor’s brows knitted together. “I did watch it, though.”

“Ah.”

Yuuri sat down on the bench and dropped his gaze to the floor. Fingers trembling, he put on his skates. Victor took a seat beside him, and waited. Yuuri laced up both boots, then clasped his hands together and huddled in on himself. He made no move to stand.

“Yuuri, did something happen?”

Yuuri took a shaky breath. “I. Kind of declared my love for you on national television.”

The words came out so fast, Victor wasn’t sure he heard correctly.

“What?”

Yuuri jerked his head up. “I said I loved you!”

His shout echoed around the rink, and Victor blinked, watching Yuuri’s face go red. In his throat, Victor’s pulse skipped like a rabbit’s.

“I mean,” Yuuri said, tugging at his sleeves, “I said I loved you, and my family, and everyone who’s supported me all these years. So many people cared about me, but I never let myself feel cared for.”

Victor’s heart fell back into his stomach. If he’d been standing, he would have swayed on his feet. Yuuri loved him. Of course he did. Just like he loved everyone else. Just not the way Victor wanted to be loved.

 _Selfish,_ he heard Yakov’s voice say.

Yuuri clasped his hands around one knee. “What you said, about Minami...”

Against his will, the old jealous monster flared in Victor’s chest. What did _Minami_ have to do with any of this?

“It really stuck with me,” Yuuri said. “When I said ‘Good luck,’ the look on his face...I’m not going to forget that.”

Victor pushed the boiling in his gut to the far corner of his mind. Outwardly, he kept his voice calm and his body very still. “He looks up to you.”

“Yeah. And I was so worried about myself, I didn’t even realize. I ignored him because I didn’t believe that he really cared, that he didn’t _mean_ it when he said those things. I didn’t intend to, but I hurt him.”

The boiling cooled, and Victor let out a breath. He lay one hand over Yuuri’s.

“You did fix it, though.”

“Yeah. But then, for a moment before the press conference, you looked really sad.”

Victor straightened up. Had he fallen out of practice? Unprofessional. Yuuri had enough to think about, without Victor’s feelings on top of that.

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

“You were sad,” Yuuri said, “because I told you to leave, and after you were gone I thought, oh god, it’s like Minami all over again.”

“I’m fine, Yuuri.” Victor put on a smile. “We’re fine.”

“And then the cameras were on me, and Morooka was asking me about my theme, about love, and even though you stood by me all these months I didn’t let you stand with me up there—”

“I said it’s fine.”

“Because I was scared.” Yuuri slouched forward and stared at the floor. “I was scared of what I’d say, of what you’d say when you heard it. It’s been bubbling up for such a long time and I feel like any day it’ll explode and you’ll hate me for it.”

The words made Victor’s chest hurt. He lay his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, and leaned in.

“I could never hate you.”

“I know.”

Yuuri’s whisper hung in the air between them. He kept his eyes averted, and rubbed the collar of his shirt.

“The rational part of me knows that. But there’s a stupid, scared part that makes me push you away when you’ve done nothing wrong. Like when I avoided you, and skipped practice. And I’m sorry I ever did that.”

Victor’s arm twitched with the urge to cup Yuuri’s face, and pull him closer. He settled for squeezing Yuuri’s shoulder.

“I never blamed you for that. It was mostly my fault, anyway.”

Yuuri went still. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I was hitting on you when you clearly didn’t want that. It was selfish and unprofessional, and I’m—”

“You _what?”_

Yuuri's voice cracked on the second word, head jerking like a startled deer. From shoulders to ankles, his every muscle tensed, ready to bolt. Victor's cheeks heated up from embarrassment, and he had to pull away.

“Flirting,” he said, throat tight. “Sorry about that.”

Yuuri gaped back at him. His mouth hung slightly open now, and he seemed to lean forward unconsciously, but he didn't make a sound.

As the seconds passed, Victor swallowed, and resisted the urge to fidget. He shouldn't have brought the subject up. Yuuri was probably freezing up from anxiety, so Victor cleared his throat and tried to put him at ease.

“Don't worry about it,” he said. “We're fine. Let's pretend this never—”

“You _were_ flirting with me?”

“—happened and go back to—What?”

He stopped. A faint blush dusted Yuuri's cheeks, and for a moment they stared at each other.

“You,” Yuuri mumbled, “were flirting with _me?”_

Victor blinked. Not only had he flirted, he had pulled out all the stops. Was taking off his clothes and asking to sleep together too _subtle?_

But Yuuri was still staring frozen at him, so Victor said, “Yes?”

“Oh.”

Yuuri let out a breath, slumping a little, and his knee began to jitter. He glanced aside, staring at nothing in particular.

“Oh my _god,”_ he murmured. “I thought I was reading too much into it.”

Victor coughed. “My apologies. I never meant to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t!” Yuuri jerked back to him. “I mean, I was nervous, but it wasn’t your fault. And then, when I wasn’t nervous anymore, it seemed like you weren’t interested, like maybe I had just imagined things? _Did_ I imagine things?”

Victor leaned back slightly, and couldn’t meet his eyes.

“You didn’t. I backed off after you turned me down.”

Yuuri blanched. “When did I turn you down? _Why_ would I turn you down?”

Had Victor slipped into some kind of alternate timeline while showering this morning?

“The beach,” he said, slowly and clearly. “I asked if you wanted me as your boyfriend, and you said no, you wanted things the way they were.”

For a second, all was silent. Then, Yuuri exploded off the bench and flailed his hands in the air.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that! I meant, I want you to be yourself, not to put on an act for my sake! I want you to be who you are!”

Victor’s world rewound four months back in time, and he was on the sand again, waves crashing in his ears.

_What do you want me to be to you a father figure—no—a brother a friend—no—your boyfriend then I can try my best—no, no, no, no, NO._

_I want you to stay who you are, Victor!_

Victor reeled, jaw slack, eyes wide, and heart thudding with a spark he hadn’t let himself feel in months. It seemed so obvious when Yuuri pointed it out.

It hadn't been a rejection. It had been an acceptance—not of Victor's advances, but of Victor himself. But he had been so intent on figuring out the role Yuuri wanted him to play, he’d never guessed that Yuuri didn’t want him to play a role at all. He heard a “No” and filtered it through his own fear of rejection.

But if Yuuri hadn't _meant_ to turn him down...Maybe, just maybe...

Beside him, Yuuri let out a faint laugh. “I’m sorry, I had no idea you thought...” He shook his head. “I’m not very good at this, huh?”

Victor managed to smile back. “Apparently, neither am I.”

Yuuri stepped forward. He reached out a hand, hesitant at first, then brushed the fringe from Victor’s eyes.

“I don’t mind if you flirt with me,” he said. “If you still want to, that is.”

Now that was just not fair. This wasn’t the Eros routine, that wasn’t his sexy smile, and Yuuri had no right to make Victor’s heart flutter like that.

 _Maybe_ was looking a lot more like _probably._

He lay his hand in Yuuri's, and rose to his feet. “And if that’s not all I want?”

“Well, about that...” Yuuri looked away, but that didn't hide the red on his cheeks. “I was thinking at the press conference, when I was talking about love. And I thought about Minami, and you, and everyone else who believes in me, even when I don’t deserve it.”

“Yuuri. You _always_ deserve it.”

Yuuri gulped, and his eyes darted to their hands, before returning to Victor.

“I want to stop running away from people. I want to face my problems and the people I care about, even if I’m scared. So can I...can I ask you for something?”

His other hand snaked up behind Victor's neck. Victor’s insides shook at that, his blood was on fire, and his fingers tightened around Yuuri’s.

“What is it?”

“I want you to join me for my exhibition skate.”

Victor froze, caught between his heart doing somersaults and his rational mind trying to hold on.

“For _Stammi Vicino?_ ”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know what that song is about?”

“It’s about the speaker reaching out to the man he loves, and saying, stay with me and never leave.” Yuuri brushed his fingers against Victor’s shirt. “Isn’t it?”

 _Probably_ was looking more like...more like...Oh damn, _focus,_ Victor.

“If we skate that, together,” he said, “you realize what people will think we are?”

“Maybe I want them to think that. Maybe I want to be hated as the thief who took you away from the rest of the world.” He glanced up. “If you’ll let me.”

Victor gulped, hand over Yuuri’s hand over his heartbeat, and said the only possible answer.

“Take me.”

Yuuri pulled him down. Victor couldn’t have resisted even if he wanted to. The world blinked out of existence around him, then roared back in a hot rush because he was kissing Yuuri Katsuki.

Victor spoke three and a half languages, but if he were asked to describe it, all he could manage would be screeching noises, cartwheels, and collapsing to the floor in a puddle of goop. He did not do any of those while _while_ kissing Yuuri, but his knees shook and his head spun, and thank god Yuuri was there to keep him standing.

When they finally broke for air, Yuuri was pink and smiling brighter than the Sun. Victor couldn't help grinning back.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve been dancing around each other for months.”

“It was pretty confusing, yeah.”

“Confusing? I asked to sleep with you the first night I came here.”

“I thought it might be flirting, sort of,” Yuuri said. “But my brain makes me second-guess everything. 'Yuuri, you’re not good enough for him.' 'Yuuri, he’s like that to everyone.' 'Yuuri, he doesn’t want you like that.' ”

“I do.” Victor leaned in. “I do want you. I’ve wanted you ever since I came here.”

Yuuri smirked. “I thought you wanted to coach me.”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and dark. “I bet you are.”

Jesus. That was the same tone he’d used on Victor in Sochi. Victor had given up on ever hearing it again. It plucked at him like a harpist’s fingers over her strings, sending shivers all across his body, and he pulled Yuuri in again without even realizing it.

Their second kiss was slower, less world-bending, but better, because this time Victor was calm enough to feel Yuuri’s warmth and his arms around Victor’s waist, instead of dumbly recovering from disbelief. He braced them against the rink barrier, and even when the kiss ended he didn’t let go. Yuuri beamed up at him and ran his fingers through Victor’s hair.

Victor chuckled. “You really like touching my hair, don’t you?”

Yuuri reddened at that, but his hand stayed in place.

“I’m assuming I have permission now?”

“Always.”

Yuuri’s hand resumed the motion, and Victor leaned into it. It was nice to be touched, gently, as if Victor was something soft and fragile, not like the diamond he’d shaped himself to be. Not the sharp, hard kind of beauty meant to glimmer under stage lights.

Ah. The skating world. After Yuuri’s press conference, they must have been throwing a fit. Victor grinned at that thought.

“Would you like me to handle the internet’s reaction?”

“Don’t bother. I checked the news, and they only reported what my theme was.”

Victor gave him an incredulous look. “Really?”

“Well,” Yuuri let his hand drop, “I might have been, um, a little ambiguous at the conference. I started rambling about you and my friends and family, so the reporters probably weren't sure what kind of love I meant.”

Victor hummed. “Strange. It's not like them to leave without even a gossip column.”

“I did see a few articles that said we were fighting. There was a photo from when you were talking to me about Minami, and out of context...”

“Aha.” He nodded to himself. “They must have run with that line instead because they had pictures for it.”

And because a lot of Victor's fans wanted it to be true. As did the Russian Skating Federation. He wouldn't put it past them to try to sabotage him and Yuuri, in hope that Victor would come crawling back. But Yuuri didn't need to hear about that.

“So no,” Yuuri said, “I don’t think people get it yet. The skating world will find out in November.”

November? Ah, of course. The Cup of China. Which, like every Grand Prix competition, had a short program, a long program...and an exhibition day that only the top-scoring skaters performed in.

Victor gripped Yuuri’s arms, eyes wide and mouth twitching. “You want the exhibition skate _itself_ to be the first people hear about us?”

“We’re going to be skating it anyway, aren’t we?”

The sheer casualness in Yuuri’s words betrayed an assurance, a rare spark of _confidence_ , that made Victor’s heart thump.

“If that’s how they find out, it’s going to be a scandal.”

The corner of Yuuri’s mouth quirked up. “Probably.”

“I should warn you,” Victor said, “that I get very into character for my performances.”

“Good.” Yuuri’s hands settled on Victor’s waist. “So do I.”

They didn’t get much skating done that day.

* * *

A week later, Victor was taking Makkachin for her morning walk when his heart leaped into his throat and he froze on the sidewalk.

Coming down the road to Yu-Topia was a FedEx truck. No one in the Katsuki household ever shipped FedEx. Or rather, no one but Victor.

He dropped Makkachin’s leash and broke into a sprint, feet pounding against the pavement and heart thudding triple-time. Makkachin raced beside him. They were closer to Yu-Topia’s gate, but the truck moved faster than Victor ever could. He barely took the time to look both ways before running across the street, nearly leaping from curb to curb, ignoring the stares of passers-by.

Mere meters from the gate, the truck passed him, and he pushed ahead with one last burst of speed. He skidded to the doorway and slammed against the side of the house. The delivery man gaped at him for a few seconds, brows high and shoulders hunched, before easing himself down and hauling out a box.

After a moment, he said in halting English, “Delivery for...Victor Nikiforov?”

Victor straightened up and patted his fringe back to a semi-presentable state. “That’s me.”

The creak of the tatami floor inside made hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He grabbed the package and dumped it behind the bushes beside the front door.

The delivery man cocked his head. “Sir?”

Victor bowed. “Everything’s fine. Thank you _very_ much.”

The delivery man frowned, but he bowed back and awkwardly shuffled away, eyes still half on Victor. The front door opened, and Hiroko peeked out around Victor’s back.

“Hello, Vicchan! Did something arrive for us?”

“Just a wrong address. Nothing to worry about.”

She smiled at him, and waved to the departing truck. “Okay. Good to know.” She cast her eyes around the gate entrance. “Hmm. I haven’t pruned the front bushes in a while. Maybe I should check on them.”

“No!”

“No?”

Victor held up his hands. “I mean, they’re fine! You’ve done a wonderful job, and they look so lively! I’m sure they won’t need any trimming for a while.”

Hiroko beamed. “You're very sweet. But they are overgrown. Why, you could probably fit an entire shipping box back there.”

Victor laughed, stomach squirming. “Perish the thought.”

She tilted her head, still smiling, and watched him for a long moment.

“You're a poor liar, Vicchan.”

He froze. “Ah?”

“It's okay, dear. I already know what you're up to.”

What? _How?_ Was it Minako who told? Mari, Yuuko? They'd promised to keep it quiet, but they saw Hiroko all the time, so if one of them changed her mind—

“It's alright,” Hiroko said, waving her hand. “I'm happy for you and Yuuri. You don't need to sneak around me.”

Wait, why would she be happy about the...No, it wasn't the sweater. She thought he was being evasive about him and Yuuri dating. Thank god.

He cleared his throat, pulse dropping back below heart-attack level. “Right, thank you.”

“Just make sure to be careful.” There was a faint twinkle in her eye. “It's not hygienic to use things like that in the onsen.”

He frowned. “Things like...”

What was she talking about? He'd never brought anything into the onsen. And why would she mention him and Yuuri after Victor got a delivery? The last time something had arrived for him, it had just been that godforsaken box of—Oh. Oh, dear god. She _had_ seen the merkins.

Why couldn't the earth form a hole and swallow him up right now?

“There's nothing shameful about it,” she said, cheerfully ignoring Victor's mortification. “But you'll want to be discreet. This is an old house, and the walls are rather thin.”

Dying. He was dying. But he could either die of shame or tell her what was really in the box.

“Thank you, Hiroko.”

“You're welcome.” She chuckled. “Perhaps I could prune the bushes tomorrow instead.”

She fluttered back inside, and Victor let out a breath, whole body sagging against the wall. Note to self: Yuuri was not a figure-skating demon. He was half-demon on his mother's side.

Victor pushed through the bushes to retrieve the box. The perfectly innocent, G-rated box. With yarn in it. He emerged covered in leaves, twigs and the battered remnants of his dignity.

Hiroko at least had the mercy to visit the kitchen for a minute, giving him and Makkachin a chance to slink inside without having to make eye contact with her.

At the end of the hall, a rustling sound came from Yuuri's room. Victor’s arm went tight around the package. Of all the days Yuuri could wake up early, it had to be now? Victor darted into his room and shut the door behind him, keeping Makkachin well away from the box.

A sharp pair of scissors made quick work of the packaging. The sight within made his heart soar. He’d never thought he’d be so happy to see such a vile shade of puce.

The floorboards groaned, and he slammed the box shut just as the door to his room swung open.

“Hey, Victor. You're back early.” Yuuri yawned, and ran a hand through his bed-head. “Hmm? What do you have there?”

For a moment, they merely stared at each other. Then, Victor thrust a finger out, and spoke.

“Makkachin, get him!”

A half-asleep Yuuri was no match for sixty pounds of Makkachin tackling and licking his face. No one was a match for Makkachin. Victor kicked the box to a corner, then joined them in a tickle-fight on the floor.

By the time Yuuri was fully awake, Victor made sure he had much more interesting things on his mind than a random shipping box.


	16. The Dance

“Three, two, one, up!”

Yuuri’s hands clasped around his hips, and Victor tensed his whole body to help Yuuri lift him up. His hands held tight on Yuuri’s shoulders. Half a heartbeat later, and his feet were back on the ice.

“How’s that?”

“Better,” Yuuri said. “You don’t have to cling to me, you know. I won’t drop you.”

“I know. This is new to me, that’s all.”

Yuuri grinned. “Funny. I thought you were supposed to be the one coaching me.”

“I never got to try lifts in St. Petersburg! Can you imagine trying to pair skate with Georgi Popovich?”

“That’s terrifying.” Yuuri shuddered. “I’m really glad I grew up practicing with Yuuko instead.”

Training was nearly over for the day, and they were winding down with the exhibition skate. It was an easy routine, since both of them knew _Stammi Vicino_ already, and Victor had choreographed it himself. He had only needed a day to modify it into an ice dance they could skate together.

Yuuri wanted to keep all the jumps at first, because of course Yuuri the Skating Demon would try to land eleven jumps—including four quads—in a routine that wasn’t even being scored. Victor had tactfully suggested they do lifts instead. Besides, that was more romantic.

Yuuri’s hands settled back on Victor’s waist. “I want the quad flip in there, at least.”

Victor hummed. “Ice dances don’t normally have quads.”

“So? It’s only an exhibition skate. And this is _our_ jump.”

Victor couldn’t help smiling at that, and lay one of his hands over Yuuri’s. Yuuri lifted that hand, still joined in Victor’s, and slowly led them through the step sequence.

“The rest of the world wants to see you skating instead of coaching me.”

Victor let Yuuri pull him along, drifting through his side of the dance. “That’s not what _I_ want.”

“I know. But if they want you to skate, why not give them a surprise?”

He drew back, and locked eyes with Victor.

“I want to show them the quad flip,” Yuuri said, “because it’s something _we_ accomplished. As a team. I want them to see everything you’ve done for me, and what I hope to do for you. And for the people who don’t like it, I want to land Victor Nikiforov’s jump and shove it right in their faces.”

Victor would happily skate naked if it meant Yuuri spoke like that more often.

“I’m starting to think you enjoy shocking people as much as I do.”

Yuuri smiled at him, looking far more innocent than he actually was.

Victor chuckled. “I suppose I can allow for a bit of artistic license. If you’ve got the quad flip down by the time we perform it, you can leave it in there.”

Knowing Yuuri, he’d probably try it anyway. Although he hadn’t mastered the jump, he’d come closer today than any of his previous attempts. Every time Victor watched, his own heart flipped at the same time. After all, it was something that only he could have helped Yuuri accomplish.

Victor’s whole body went warm at that, and he interrupted the routine to lift Yuuri up in his arms. Yuuri startled, overbalanced, and in a second they were both sprawled over the ice.

Yuuri asked, “Are you okay?”

Between his thin workout clothes and a hundred tons of ice below him, Victor’s skin was freezing. But Yuuri Katsuki was on top on him, and his hand had curled in Victor’s hair so Victor wouldn’t hit his head, and Victor was very, very okay with this.

“Sorry,” he said, not sorry at all.

“It’s fine,” Yuuri said. “But you really need to practice your lift stance.”

“Oh no, not holding my _boyfriend!_ Anything but that!”

Yuuri reddened, as he always did at that title, and smiled. He stood up from the ice ( _rude_ ) and held out a hand to help Victor up ( _nice_ ). Victor spun around and wrapped his arms around Yuuri in a move that did not have a point value, but definitely deserved one.

“I can’t wait for the Cup of China,” Victor said. “The rink in Beijing is one of my favorites.”

“Oh? I’ve never been.”

“You’ll like it.” He winked. “The organizers know what they're doing, so there's plenty of... _downtime_ between programs.” His hands wandered lower on Yuuri's back. “We'll have to find some way to occupy ourselves.”

Yuuri reached up, thumb brushing Victor's lip. “Perhaps we could see the sights.”

Victor leaned closer. “I’m seeing a nice sight already.”

“Yuuri!”

Yuuko's voice carried over the ice, and Yuuri jolted. Victor craned his neck, and saw her leaning over the rink wall. She clasped her hands together.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt. But could you show Lutz one of your sit-spins?”

Yuuri glanced down, at Victor's arms around him. “I, uh, I was going through lifts with Victor.”

“I noticed.” Yuuko chuckled, and held a finger to her lips. “But she really wants to post a video of you two skating, and I kind of bribed her not to by saying she could skate with you.”

Victor squeezed Yuuri’s shoulder. “We were nearly done for the day, anyway.”

Yuuri looked up at him and swallowed. “One more time?”

Victor grinned, and threw his arms around Yuuri’s neck, and couldn’t stifle a giggle when Yuuri lifted him up. Thank god for Yuuri’s fantastic stamina.

All too soon, he was back on the ground. Yuuri parted from him slowly, and skated over to Yuuko.

“Alright,” he said. “Bring her over.”

While Yuuri was taking a drink from his water bottle, Victor left the ice. He sat at a bench and changed back into regular shoes. Yuuko passed by him and tapped her nose.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Yuuri’s too busy to interrupt you. Good luck with the knitting!”

Victor gave her a tight smile. “Thanks.”

It was a nice gesture, after all. And if he was honest with himself, by that point he and Yuuri were goofing around more than they were practicing anything important. But he still felt the ghost of Yuuri’s fingers on his hips, the press of Yuuri’s strong muscles against his, the warmth of Yuuri’s voice in his ear.

Even so, that sweater wasn’t going to knit itself, and they were already well into October. If he wanted to finish before Yuuri noticed anything was wrong, he needed every minute he could spare. So Victor put his skates back in his bag, waved goodbye to Yuuko’s daughters, and returned to Yu-Topia to knit.

He glowered at the clown face with every row he stitched.

* * *

Victor didn’t get to spend as much time with Yuuri as he would have liked over the next few weeks. Even though they were _together_ (and that thought always made Victor’s heart leap), they were seeing less of each other than ever. Mari, Minako or Yuuko always found a way to pull them apart. Which was why Victor was now knitting intarsia in his room instead of going out with Yuuri.

The women’s coordination was both impressive and unsettling. If they’d acted like this when Victor first came to Hasetsu, his relationship with Yuuri—coach, friend or otherwise—would have fizzled out before it was ever born.

He had arrived assuming he could turn on the charm and continue where he and Yuuri had left off in Sochi. When Yuuri backed away, Victor had tried acting out different roles to find the one Yuuri wanted from him. Nothing had worked.

Victor frowned to himself, twisting his yarn around a new color mid-row. He continued across the stitches with the new color, building the intarsia design bit by bit.

Nothing had worked, because Victor had never been in control in the first place. _Yuuri_ was the one who wanted him here, and Yuuri’s friends and family had gone easy on Victor for Yuuri’s sake.

A knock sounded at Victor's bedroom door, and he rushed to hide the sweater front under his sheets. He slammed his laptop shut to hide the clown face chart on the screen. And it was just in time, too, before Yuuri poked his head in.

“Hi, Victor. What were you doing?”

Victor smiled. He probably looked very suspicious like this, sitting on his bed with his laptop off to the side and the screen closed.

“Oh, nothing important. What about you? How was practice with Minako today? You look like you’ve been training hard.”

Minimize, deflect, redirect. He’d used this strategy many times when reporters had asked him about his personal life. Using it on Yuuri felt wrong, but he had a good reason for doing it.

“It was fine,” Yuuri said. His eyes darted around the room. “I wanted to talk with you about something, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” Victor’s insides were twisting into pretzels. “What’s on your mind?”

“I haven’t seen much of you lately. I wondered if I did something wrong.”

“No, you’ve been great. It’s—”

Victor cut himself off. He had nearly blurted out his secret right there. He’d been working so much on knitting this project for Yuuri, and thinking about the future, that he had forgotten to think about how Yuuri was feeling now. But creating a replacement sweater was worthless if Victor ended up making Yuuri unhappy for a different reason.

Victor mentally kicked himself. He had spent so long pining after Yuuri, but now that Yuuri was reaching back, Victor had neglected him.

He could have told Yuuri the truth about why he had been distant lately. But that would hurt Yuuri again when he realized how thoughtless Victor had been. Perhaps Victor could be vague? Maybe come up with a little white lie? Or something sort of true, but not the whole truth.

“I promise there’s nothing wrong. I’m not mad at you or anything. I’m, ah...”

Yuuri leaned forward. “What is it?”

Victor mentally scrambled for something to say. Excuse, excuse, he needed an excuse...

“I’m...working on your birthday present!”

The room went silent for a moment. Yuuri blinked. “Really?”

That’s right, Yuuri’s birthday was in late November. Victor could work with this.

“Yes!” he said, sitting up straighter. “I got so excited when I realized your birthday was coming up, so I started working on your birthday present!”

Yuuri knit his brows together. “But that’s over a month from now.”

“I want to make sure it’s perfect.”

“You really don’t have to. I don’t want to make you go through all this trouble for it.”

“I want to. You deserve only the best.”

Yuuri ducked his head, and smiled.

“Victor, anything you get me will be wonderful, because it came from you. Don’t stress out about it, okay?”

“You’re telling _me_ not to stress out?”

Yuuri pointed to himself, shrugging one shoulder. “Look at everything I do, and do the opposite. I’m a bad role model.”

“Excuse me, you are a great role model.” Victor crossed his arms in mock affront. “Anyways, I’m not stressing, I love having projects to work on. And I love surprising people. Your birthday present will be...something else.”

It would definitely be _something_ , even if Victor hadn’t the faintest idea what.

Yuuri’s mouth twitched. “Well, now I’m curious.”

“Like I said, it’s a surprise.”

“Okay, fine. You can work on whatever mysterious project you’re up to. But I’d like to spend some time with you, too, if we can?”

Victor’s heart ached. He rose to his feet and took Yuuri’s hand.

“Of course. Let’s go out.”

“What, right now?”

“No time like the present!”

Hopefully, going out would distract Yuuri from thinking too hard about what Victor was working on. And frankly, he had missed Yuuri’s company, too.

Makkachin was with Hiroko behind the front counter, being a very good and adorable desk clerk, so Victor and Yuuri left without her. The heat of summer had faded by now, and Hasetsu rustled with cool gusts over the street. It wasn’t cold enough to wear layers, thank goodness, but that wouldn’t hold true for much longer.

Victor had managed re-knit more than half the sweater through October. At this rate, he could probably finish before the first November cold snap. Probably. But after he knitted it, he’d have to seam the pieces together by hand, and replicate the loose threads and moth holes from the original, and...

“What’s Beijing like at this time of year?”

Yuuri’s voice shook Victor out of his own head, and he needed a moment to answer.

“Pretty chilly. Not too bad, but you’ll want to bundle up.”

Yuuri looked at him sidelong, smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe I’ll bring the Pennywise sweater.”

“No!”

They stopped on the pavement, Yuuri blinking up at him, Victor with his hands clenched into fists. Victor cleared his throat.

“I mean, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Beijing gets windy and a coat will block out the air better. Knitted sweaters aren’t usually windproof, especially not at the gauge that one had...”

Yuuri tilted his head, eyebrows raised. Victor clapped a hand over his mouth to stop from rambling about a topic he was supposed to be unfamiliar with. Yuuri chuckled.

“Wow, you _really_ don’t like that sweater.”

Victor glanced away, rubbing the knuckles of his hands where they’d curled around the needles.

“It’s just not my taste.”

“Don’t worry, I was kidding. I wouldn’t embarrass you like that.”

Victor let out a breath, and slid his hand into Yuuri’s. “You’re never embarrassing.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened. He smiled and squeezed Victor’s palm. They stopped midway across the bridge, where the low rays of the evening Sun cast glimmering streaks across the water. Yuuri leaned with his free arm over the railing, watching the sailboats return to their piers.

“If there’s an afterlife,” Victor said, “my mother is probably feeling very smug.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She wanted me to go into ice dancing, not singles skating. She thought it would be easier on my body, since there's no triples or quads.”

Yuuri turned to him. “I thought you never did lifts before?”

“Oh, I didn't.” He shrugged. “I never got that far. I made a terrible ice dancer.”

“You? Bad at skating?” Yuuri gave him an incredulous look. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Skating, I could do. Teamwork, not so much.”

“Okay, _that_ I can see.” Yuuri's lip quirked up. “So they moved you to the singles division instead?”

“The word my mother used was 'quarantined.' ”

Yuuri laughed, a beautiful sound that carried through the night air. Behind him, the wind picked up the first leaves falling from the trees, and scattered them across the road and into the river. Overhead, it buffeted a seagull, which honked and flapped before continuing on its way towards the sea.

Wasn’t there a Shinto belief about birds guiding people’s souls to the afterlife? Or was it about people returning in the form of birds? It was nice to daydream about, to think of loved ones coming back for a final goodbye. His mother would have been a crane.

“It’s strange,” he said, “but I’ve been thinking a lot about her lately.”

Yuuri looked up from the water. “Your mother?”

Victor nodded. “I don’t know why. If I'm twenty-seven, then she died...fifteen years ago? I should be over it by now.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“It never bothered me before.” He leaned over the railing beside Yuuri. “I was fine. I _am_ fine. So why do I keep thinking of her now?”

“Maybe you miss her because you left Russia?”

Victor frowned. That didn't make any sense. If he missed her, he should have missed her in the home where she'd raised him, in the streets they'd walked together to school. Here, there was nothing left of her but Tchaikovsky, nothing to dredge up her memory.

Beside him, Yuuri ducked his head.

“Sorry,” he said. “Ignore me. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“It’s alright.” Victor ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me today. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about this.”

Yuuri looked up. He watched Victor for a moment, before a small smile appeared on his lips.

“I don’t mind,” he said.

“Still, it doesn’t make for much of a date.”

Victor rested his chin in his hands, and forced a chuckle. Yuuri leaned on the railing beside him. The seagull flew away, farther and farther, until they couldn’t see it anymore.

There was no reason for him to feel like this. He certainly hadn't felt this way in Russia. He'd been fine.

Hadn't he?

Yuuri hummed, and straightened up a little, a faraway look in his eyes.

“ _I hear a voice weeping in the distance,”_ he recited. _“_ _H_ _ave you been abandoned as well?”_

The familiar words made something tighten in Victor's chest.

“ _I wish I could cut those throats singing about love,”_ Yuuri continued. _“_ _I wish I could enclose in ice the hands that write those verses of burning passion.”_

Victor swallowed, and kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. His voice barely lifted above a murmur.

“ _Stammi Vicino._ ” He took a slow breath to center himself. “English translation, stanzas one and three.”

Beside him, Yuuri fidgeted. “After Vicchan died, I must have listened to that song a million times. I know it’s not the same as losing a mother, but...”

“But he’s still your family.”

“Yeah.” In the corner of Victor’s eye, Yuuri let out a breath. “I came home after five years overseas, and everyone here congratulated me _,_ and all I could think about was my dead dog. So, if you need to be sad sometimes, I understand.”

Part of Victor recoiled at that. He had fans to be strong for, he had sponsors to smile for and an image and the paparazzi and—no. Not in Hasetsu. Not with Yuuri.

He glanced at Yuuri again, Yuuri who slouched calmly against the rail beside him. Victor's hands tightened for a second on the metal bar, then he leaned over and pulled Yuuri into a side-hug.

“He must have been an amazing dog.”

Yuuri leaned against him. “And she was a great mother.”

Victor sighed, head resting against Yuuri's. She had been.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, watching the leaves scatter over the river mouth. The only conversation came from the squawks of gulls and the hum of the wind. And Victor let his heart hurt a little, because here, he could.

“It’s funny,” Yuuri said. “In my head, you were sort of a larger than life figure for a long time. But I like the real Victor better.”

He shifted. “And what’s the real Victor like?”

“Like a guy who helps my Mom with chores, even though he’s a guest. Like a man who’s always good to little kids even when they’re interrupting our practice.” His lips twitched. “Who’s good to Minami, too, even though you can’t stand him.”

Victor looked away. Would Yuuri still smile, if he knew the real reason why Victor helped out around the house, and why the triplets kept interrupting?

Victor’s mother had always hated it when he lied.

“I don’t dislike Minami, he’s just...loud.”

“Sure,” Yuuri said, not looking like he believed Victor at all. “Also, you’re scared of clowns.”

“I’m _not_ scared of clowns.”

“You’re a little scared. It’s cute.”

Victor opened his mouth to retort, but the sunlight shifted, catching Yuuri’s face in a warm glow, wind playing with the tips of his hair. He was leaning both elbows on the railing now, shoulders loose and one foot slightly off the ground, heel twitching like Makkachin’s tail when she spied a bird but was too comfortable to get up and bark.

This was the man Victor had quit his career for. The man for whom he’d spent five months making the ugliest sweater in Japan, twice. The man for whom Victor had left his country, changed careers, abandoned Yurio, outraged his fans, gotten blackmailed, humiliated himself on the internet, lost sponsors, lost Dinara, lost Yakov.

But Yuuri was smiling next to him, eyes tracking the last sailboat drifting in to port, and Victor couldn’t bring himself to mind.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “Maybe I’m a little scared.”


	17. The Cameras

“You still haven’t finished packing?”

Victor froze, instinctively hugging the knitting to his chest as if to hide it. From behind him, he heard a sigh.

“Relax,” Minako said, stepping into his bedroom. “We’ve got a few minutes, but I’d rather be at the airport early.”

Victor let out a breath, and the needles sagged. In his defense, nearly all of his luggage was packed, and had been for a while. One suitcase, one carry-on. The emergency suit would stay neatly tucked away until after the competition to keep from taking attention off Yuuri. He also brought an extra tie, because Yuuri had started picking out terrible ones just to mess with him. Plus one more outfit that only he and Yuuri knew about, magenta with golden trim.

“I’m mostly packed,” Victor said. “Still trying to decide whether to bring the yarn.”

Minako set a hand on her hip. “After you lost the last project on the train?”

“You did say I was pressed for time.”

She shrugged one shoulder, and peered down at the knitting.

“Your needles. They’re made of metal.”

Victor held them up. “Yes?”

“It’s never happened to me, but...”

She trailed off, and leaned back against the wall. Down the hall, Victor could hear the low voices of the Katsuki family preparing for Yuuri’s departure. Victor frowned as he absently twirled the yarn around one finger.

“Minako. What is it?”

“Airport security. Sometimes they get suspicious of long, sharp metal objects.”

He blinked. “These are _knitting_ needles.”

“Don’t blame me, it’s just what I’ve heard.” She huffed and ran a hand through her hair. “Anyway, I’ve never known someone who actually got their needles taken away. But I have known people to get stopped and questioned sometimes, and China's airports have different policies than Japan's.”

He shook his head, and squinted at his needles. Without a cross-grip or handle to keep a steady hold, they were useless as weapons, except for accidentally sitting on them and stabbing yourself in the butt. Which Victor had done a few times.

“Do you think they’d stop me in line?”

“Well, you’re not a citizen of either country.”

“I’ll lose five days of work if I leave it here.”

“Yes, but it would only take one guard pulling the knitting out for Yuuri to see it.”

Yuuri. He’d recognize the pattern instantly. He’d ask questions. And they’d go into the competition with Yuuri hurt and angry, on top of his usual nerves and worry. And if Yuuri wrecked his performance because Victor’s mistake had thrown him off balance, sabotaging his chance of reaching the Final...

Victor opened Tchaikovsky and stuffed the yarn back inside.

“Best not to risk it.”

Minako nodded. “ _Now_ are you ready?”

“Let me say goodbye to Makkachin.”

They met Yuuri and the rest of the Katsukis in the lobby, Makkachin wagging by Yuuri’s side. Yuuri was bundled up in his coat and Victor’s scarf, even though the weather barely registered as “cool” to Victor. It was cute on one level, but it also gave Victor pause. Perhaps he had less time to finish the sweater than he’d thought.

Yuuri lit up as soon as he spotted Victor, and his fingers brushed against the scarf, a spark of mischief in his eyes. Victor couldn’t help grinning back.

They said their goodbyes, piled into the car with Nishigori and Minako, and tried very hard not to tip them off with shared glances and giggling. Judging by Minako’s raised eyebrow and the set of her shoulders, she could probably tell something was up, but was too busy checking the itinerary to see their linked hands behind the seat. She didn't know yet.

The whole world wouldn't know, not until the exhibition skate, and one more skater showed up on the ice than advertised.

They arrived in China to the chill of a November breeze, wintery air rolling down from the north. Beijing was a marriage of thousand year old palaces and twenty-first century universities, home to operas and Olympics and everything in between. He'd forgotten how fast people walked in mega-cities, how small the sky looked between the skyscrapers, the honks of cars instead of seagulls.

Even though they visited the stadium a full day before the competition opened, it was already crowded by event staff, journalists, camera crews, and the general public. The rink itself was enormous, and surrounded on all sides by thousands of raised seats. An army of stage lights glinted off the ice.

This rink had better amenities than Ice Castle could ever afford. But it didn’t have a dollhouse in the corner, or Yuuko’s potted flowers on the desk. There was no dent in the boards where Yuuri had wiped out as a child, nor sunbeams to light the ice up like fire in the mornings.

As he and Yuuri left the rinkside, Victor found himself frowning. He'd been looking forward to Beijing so _much,_ and yet...

“Mr. Nikiforov!”

A reporter ran up to them, a cameraman close behind her, and Victor’s smile turned on automatically. Did his makeup look alright in this lighting? He had checked before leaving the hotel room, hadn’t he?

He hadn’t. He'd left it in his desk drawer in Hasetsu. Dinara would never have believed it.

“This is your first international appearance since the last World Championship,” the reporter said, shoving a microphone in his face. “Can you confirm rumors of your retirement, or are you merely taking the season off?”

She hadn't even looked at Yuuri. Yuuri, who was now staring at his feet with the blank expression of someone who wasn't even surprised. Worse yet, several other journalists had noticed them, and were already hurrying over. Or at least, they noticed Victor. Victor, their darling who was always ready with a wink and a soundbite and a—

“No comment.”

He said it lightly, but it might as well have been a bomb. The reporters froze where they stood.

“Now,” he said, “if there are any questions for Yuuri, who is actually competing here?”

Most of them had the grace to look abashed. A few of them looked from him, to Yuuri, and back, faint disbelief on their faces. Victor just kept smiling.

“I do,” said a familiar voice. “Mr. Katsuki, can you tell us more about your theme?”

Yuuri jerked up, eyes brightening as Hisashi Morooka stepped forward, and Victor would have hugged the commentator if he had the chance.

“Right, sure.” Yuuri cleared his throat. “Love. I, I kind of meant a lot of things by it. Like realizing that you're important to people, even if you don't think you deserve it. Like knowing you don't have to face things on your own.”

His words were quiet at first, and they had to lean in to hear him. But as his voice strengthened, he straightened up and brushed back his hair. Several journalists gasped, and the rest widened their eyes, belatedly recognizing him as _that_ Yuuri Katsuki.

They didn't notice Victor stepping back, or his smile flickering into something more real.

Yuuri virtually never gave interviews. In the age of social media and celebrity endorsements, his internet accounts remained stubbornly blank. Up until now, the fans and press had to rely on competition footage or vague positive comments from Celestino if they wanted to get their Yuuri fix.

So when the press realized the Ace of Japan was willing to talk to them for once, they held him and Victor in the lobby _forever._ And asked him about _everything._ When Yuuri’s answers started getting short, and the questions exceptionally silly, Victor interrupted.

“Yuuri, let’s go have hotpot.”

Yuuri scratched his neck. “Huh? I’m in the middle of an interview...”

And as wonderful Yuuri was for doing that, it would be even better if Yuuri would tell them questions were over, instead of waiting for them to get the hint.

But wait, was that Yakov over there? It was! His bald spot shone like a beacon. He was muttering to Victor’s old rinkmate, Georgi, and they were walking towards an exit. Victor hurried over.

“Yakov!” He grabbed the edge of Yakov’s coat. “Yuuri and I are getting hotpot this evening! You two should come with us. We can catch up.”

Yakov glowered over his shoulder, eyes grey and narrowed.

“Vitya. It sickens me to see you playing pretend-coach. I don’t want to hear from you unless you’re begging to come back to Russia.”

He yanked himself away, and stormed off. Georgi walked out with him, not even acknowledging Victor’s presence.

Victor stared after them for a moment. Beside him, Yuuri shifted uncomfortably, rubbing one arm. Victor shook himself, replaced his smile, and looped an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders.

“Yakov won’t be able to make it.” He pulled Yuuri in the other direction. “But no matter! Have you ever had hotpot before? I’ve always wanted to try it.”

Yuuri looked up at him, eyebrows raised over the rim of his glasses.

“Are you alright?”

“Perfect, as always.”

Yuuri didn’t look convinced, but he let the question drop.

* * *

They were preparing to order at the restaurant when Yuuri brought it up again.

“We don’t have to do it.”

Victor looked up from the menu. “Do what?”

“The exhibition skate.” Yuuri’s fingers fidgeted in his napkin. “I’m the only name officially listed for it, so no one will expect you to be there. You can sit in the audience, if you want.”

Victor leaned forward, voice low. “We were planning for that to be our reveal.”

“Yes. But if you’re worried about your reputation...”

“I’m not worried.”

“If people don’t know we’re...” Yuuri dropped his voice as well. “It’s not _usual_ for coaches to date their skaters.”

The menu fell from Victor’s hands, a soft thump on the table. His fingers curled in, he did _not_ clench them, but they curled. He straightened up, shoulders stiff.

“If you don’t want this, I’d never want to make you.”

“I do.” Yuuri lay his hand over Victor’s. “Look at me.”

Yuuri was halfway over the table now, eyes dark and steady, like they’d been before he strolled into Regionals and obliterated the competition.

“That day we got together, I meant what I said. I want to be the thief who stole Victor Nikiforov from the rest of the world.”

Victor couldn’t move. Not that he wanted to, when Yuuri could pin him to his seat with a stare. But on the table, his fingers started to uncoil. Yuuri’s hand felt hot on his wrist.

“But I also said,” Yuuri continued, “that I want to talk about problems instead of avoiding them. Your feelings are important to me. So if you’re concerned about what people will think, I don’t mind skating the exhibition alone.”

Something soft twinged inside of Victor, though he couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was Yuuri’s thoughtfulness, or the words people had murmured when they thought Victor couldn’t hear. Perhaps it was an old hunger, a void he could only notice once it started being filled.

Or it could be that he hadn’t eaten anything but airport food in six hours.

“Thank you.” He squeezed Yuuri’s hand before sitting back. “I’ll think about it. Now, what were you planning to order?”

Yuuri settled in his seat. They ordered their food, and it wasn’t long before Phichit found them. He invited a couple other skaters, Guang-hong Ji and Leo de la Iglesia. And Celestino.

No one had warned Victor just how _big_ Celestino Cialdini was. The man was practically a mountain: tall, solid, steady, and with a voice that rumbled even when speaking normally. He would have been intimidating, if not for his broad smile and the comedy of errors that occurred when they had to squeeze in space for him at the table.

Phichit and Yuuri hit it off as if they'd never been separated. Phichit's other friends mostly kept to themselves and texted on their phones. That left Victor and Celestino to stare at each other, with nothing in common except for a student who had left one and was secretly dating the other.

Awkward did not even begin to describe it.

If only Yakov and Georgi had joined them instead. Victor could have asked how Yakov had been doing since his divorce, and Georgi had lost his girlfriend, too. How had they been? Were they okay? But no, they were busy tonight. That was fine. Just busy.

Just like Yakov had been busy every other time Victor had called him. Just like he’d been too busy to reply to Victor’s messages for five months.

Victor ordered another beer.

Celestino hummed. “I usually save drinking for after the competition.”

“ _You're playing at being a coach in Japan?”_

Victor tensed, carefully keeping the frown off his face, and scanned Celestino's expression. There was no sneering lip-curl, no cold tang in his voice. Heck, compared to Yakov, Celestino was downright congenial. And yet.

“Oh, this is nothing,” Victor said. “By Russian standards, this is tap water.”

“I can believe that,” Celestino replied evenly. “But I like to set an example.”

Victor sipped his beer, and did not respond. Yakov had no problem with alcohol in moderation before competitions. In fact, he often claimed to need a stiff drink before dealing with Victor. Granted, Victor was eighty-percent sure Yakov's flask was actually full of ginger ale, if Victor could only sneak a peek in it.

But Yakov wasn't here anymore. Yakov had walked away, because he thought Victor was just playing coach as an excuse, treating Yakov's profession like a joke, he said it _sickened_ him—

Victor shut down that train of thought. But he couldn't get the look on Yakov's face out of his head. Not on his own, anyway.

“Mr. Cialdini,” he said, holding out a hand, “I think we may have started off on the wrong foot. Let's be friends instead.”

Celestino blinked, then smiled, and gave Victor a bone-crushing handshake. “I'd be delighted to.”

“What's your favorite hard drink?”

He looked rather taken aback. “Whiskey. Why?”

“To celebrate, of course.” Victor signaled to a waiter. “Two whiskeys, please.”

He didn't remember much of the rest of the night.

* * *

Yuuri took first place in the short program, of course.

And not only that. From licking his lips and making the commentator stutter at the opening, to nailing every jump, he grabbed the world’s attention and kept it. To top it all off, he stole the record for the highest short program TES score in history—from Victor's previous number. It was all Victor could do not to jump Yuuri in the kiss and cry right there.

He chanced a look at the other coaches as they left the rink. See, Yakov? Victor _had_ been paying attention for the last three years.

At twenty-seven, they both knew Victor's competitive years were waning. Yakov had kept Victor's training as intense as ever, but more and more often, he'd told Victor to practice alongside Yurio and the other junior skaters. Georgi would have been insulted, but Victor saw it for what it was: a chance for Victor to start teaching them himself.

It was clever, really. Victor could maintain his training schedule and gain experience for a second career at the same time. He'd even be able to stay involved in the sport he loved. Yakov was the main reason why Victor was able to train Yuuri at all.

Victor was no longer competing, but he would still make his old coach proud.

The next morning, Yuuri had bags under his eyes. He startled at every noise. Victor took him aside to take another nap, though it didn't seem to help.

When they returned for the free skate warm-up, most of the skaters acted as friendly as ever, but Victor caught Chris looking him up and down, a hard glint under his smile, as if to verify he was indeed Victor Nikiforov. The press had returned, too, and watched them with hungry eyes.

Victor flashed them a wink and a peace sign. Yuuri looked away.

“Don’t you feel sorry for him?” a reporter asked behind her hand, barely keeping her voice down. “Yuuri’s keeping him all to himself. It really is a shame.”

Yuuri stiffened, and Victor hurried them over to the rinkside. Since Yuuri was running on high nerves and little sleep, Victor told him to avoid wasting his energy on warm-up jumps. Yuuri bit his lip, but said nothing as he skated out onto the ice.

From where Victor stood, he could see the rest of the coaches also observing their skaters. He waved and called to them, “Hello! Good luck to everyone today!”

Celestino smiled and waved back. A few of the others noticed, but turned back to the ice without a word. Victor's smile dimmed, and his hand fell back to his side.

As a champion eight months ago, Victor had been competing for longer than most international skaters had been alive. He was the one Yakov trusted to teach the juniors, the one other skaters looked to when they were unsure what to do. But as a coach...

Across the ice, Yuuri started a jump, and fell. Cameras flashed, and Victor distantly heard reporters speaking into their microphones. From the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of the other coaches glancing his way, their faces unreadable.

Celestino was in his forties, as were most of the other coaches. Yakov was seventy. None of them looked at Victor with the mixture of awe and dread that shone in younger skaters' eyes.

Well, they were professionals here to work, after all. Victor certainly didn't expect the whole world to bow at his feet. But it would have been nice if the others would at least say hello back. If Yakov could just see that Victor was _trying..._

Behind him, a video-recorder gave its telltale beep, and Victor smiled, very, very hard.

“Don't worry,” he said as Yuuri left warm-up looking greener than before. “It's common for skaters to land jumps they missed in practice.”

It didn’t help. Nor did the roars of the crowd for each skater performing before Yuuri, or the swarm of journalists gawking at him when his hands started shaking. Somewhere nearby, Yakov was watching, and he would see all of Victor’s failures.

“ _He'll never be anyone's coach!”_

Victor shuddered at the thought that he might prove that dire prediction right. And hadn’t Celestino said the same thing? The press were more polite, but behind each of their gazes lurked the same question: When was Victor going to stop playing around, and go back to skating, like he was supposed to do?

No. That didn't matter. He needed to focus on Yuuri.

He led Yuuri away from the cameras, and took him to the quietest place in the building: the garage. Away from the choking crowd and flashing lights. But he couldn't block out the roar of the audience, and every time they cheered, Yuuri paled a little more. He was downright trembling now, and everything Victor tried only seemed to make it worse.

God, what was he supposed to do now? What would Yakov say if he saw Yuuri like—no. Think, Victor. What would Yakov _do?_

Yakov was not a nurturing man. But when Victor had been too trapped in grief to move, Yakov was the kick in the pants he’d needed. When Victor was heartbroken, Yakov wasn’t afraid to pull the shards out and crush the pieces. Not out of cruelty, but because he knew his skaters were strong, and he refused to let them sabotage themselves by wallowing in self-pity.

The only way to make a diamond was to put it under pressure.

And that's why, when stadium roared again, and Yuuri flinched, Victor said—

“If you miss the podium, I’ll take responsibility by resigning as your coach.”

Yuuri jerked back. He gaped, trembling as if Victor had struck him, and broke into tears.

_Fuck._


	18. The Flip

It was all up to Yuuri now.

Victor straightened up, the brush of Yuuri’s palm lingering where Yuuri had tapped him on the head. He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, lips pressed together, hands fidgeting uselessly on the rink boards.

The music started. Yuuri’s movements were shaky at first, and hesitant. The sight made Victor wince, but Yuuri managed to play it off as part of the routine, flowing with the gentle crescendo of the piano.

Victor closed his eyes, and drew a ragged breath. He was a damned idiot. An idiot, a jerk, a self-absorbed moron who couldn't see what was bothering his boyfriend until Yuuri shouted it in his face.

“ _I’m used to being blamed for my own failures!_ _But this time, I’m anxious because my mistakes would reflect on you, too!”_

Yuuri had been fretting about Victor’s public image. He picked up on Victor’s insecurities, and anxiety twisted it in his mind to make Yuuri think it was his own fault.

Across the rink, Yuuri missed a jump. Victor winced and looked down. His fingers...they'd curled around invisible needles, as if trying to do _something_ useful for once. He shook himself and looked back at the ice.

All the articles he’d read on supporting people with anxiety said he needed to be a calm, steady and reassuring presence. Instead, Victor had let Yuuri see his doubts, and he allowed his stress to show as Yuuri’s tension grew worse. Instead of being Yuuri’s rock in the storm, he’d dumped more water into the boat.

Yuuri flubbed another jump. Was it nerves? Anger, exhaustion? Was it Victor’s stupid mouth that would cost Yuuri the gold today? He shut his eyes in a shudder.

Victor was Yuuri’s boyfriend, yes. But that didn’t exempt him from his responsibility as a coach. If anything, it made things worse, because as a boyfriend he should always strive to make Yuuri happy. Victor had to do better. He had to _be_ better, for Yuuri.

He opened his eyes, and crossed his arms to keep them still. He needed to focus on the present, not fifteen minutes ago. He had to observe for Yuuri’s sake, so that whatever happened now, he would be better prepared to help Yuuri at Rostelecom.

But when he looked up, Yuuri wasn’t faltering. No. He picked himself up in a flash, and threw aside his nerves for determination. Victor swayed on his feet. Yuuri skated as if their fight fifteen minutes ago had never happened. Though his technique wasn’t perfect, it was so utterly _alive_ that Victor gripped the rink board, as captivated as when he’d seen the _Stammi Vicino_ video all those months before.

“ _Just have more faith in me than I do!”_

Looking back, it made perfect sense. Yuuri said Victor had been his inspiration to begin skating again, and what had Victor been doing then? Playing the part of celebrity athlete, confident and unflappable. They had barely even spoken at that point, but it didn’t matter. Yuuri had returned to the ice because he wanted Victor Nikiforov, world champion, not Victor Nikiforov, awkward and insecure.

It was so obvious Victor nearly slapped himself. Of _course_ being positive would help an anxious person calm down more than being negative. Victor should have smiled and joked this whole time, instead of letting Yuuri see his issues. He should have kept better control of himself.

“ _I’ve been wondering if you secretly want to quit!”_

Instead, he had allowed his problems to become Yuuri’s problems. He’d made Yuuri doubt whether Victor valued him or public opinion more. And yes, Victor _had_ been worrying what the rest of the world thought of him, and he hadn’t hidden it well enough. But if it came down to Yuuri’s happiness or everyone else in the world, Victor would pick Yuuri every time.

But how could he prove that? What would show Yuuri that he mattered more than Victor's reputation? How could Victor make him feel _loved?_

The end of the routine approached, and only one jump remained. A quad toe, Yuuri’s most reliable quad. But Yuuri wasn’t angling correctly for the quad toe. He was changing his entry—into the quad flip.

Into _their_ quad flip.

The world went silent around Victor’s ears, and time stood still, his vision narrowing into that tiny speck of silver against ice. His jaw fell slack. He couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he wanted to.

Yuuri faltered on the landing, but he got all four rotations in. The rest of the routine flashed by as if in an instant, before Yuuri was in his final pose, panting hard, beads of sweat on his brow. All around him, people were throwing flowers onto the ice. Victor let out a breath, knuckles clenched white on the rink boards.

It was a mathematically stupid risk to take, and it might have cost Yuuri the podium. It was an irrational burst of sentimentality over strategy. It was Yuuri throwing away a gold medal so he could remind the world that Victor Nikiforov was _his_ coach.

Yakov would have shouted. Yakov would have been furious, if Victor had pulled a stunt like that. But Victor wasn’t Yakov, and he never would be.

He broke into a run, sprinting toward the rink door as Yuuri skated back towards him. Where the ice met the floor, Yuuri slowed to a stop.

Victor didn’t.

The whole world was watching, and this was the most unprofessional thing Victor had ever done. No one would take him seriously as a coach ever again. He did it anyway.

He leapt forward, pressed his lips to Yuuri's, and sent them both crashing onto the ice.

* * *

Second place. _Second place!_ Even after Victor’s incompetence and Yuuri throwing the end of his routine out the window, they still got second place! They still had a strong shot at reaching the Final!

Victor couldn’t keep himself seated. From the moment they called the results, through the award ceremony, the photographers, the press statements, he couldn’t even stand still. When the cameras were on them, he shoved his hands in his pockets so they wouldn’t see him fidgeting. When they looked away, he paced.

Had the post-competition routine always taken so long? Why did everyone even bother? It was the same inane questions and vapid answers every time. The pictures would be so heavily edited they could’ve just photoshopped Yuuri and Victor in later instead, and couldn’t people see that he and Yuuri had more important things to do? (Like each _other_?)

The moment he saw an opening, Victor caught Yuuri’s eye. Victor gestured toward the exit, and Yuuri nodded. Grabbing Yuuri’s hand, he squared his shoulders, and ran like a poodle that had swiped the last pirozhki off the counter. Which was pretty damn fast, in his experience. Even the paparazzi jumped aside.

He didn’t let go of Yuuri until they were safely ensconced in Yuuri’s hotel room, door locked behind them. Victor fell back against the wall, panting, visions of hide-and-seek at his old rink spinning in his head, and he looked over to Yuuri. Yuuri smiled back, cheeks red.

“That was a little rude, Victor.”

Seriously? Victor blinked back to Sochi, back to groping and pole dancing and enough alcohol to kill an elephant. And Yuuri said _this_ was rude?

Victor couldn’t help it. He started laughing. Yuuri tilted his head, as if genuinely puzzled, and Victor laughed even harder. After a moment, Yuuri started giggling too, and then their arms were around each other.

“You,” Victor said, “are the most astonishing man I’ve ever met.”

“Really? I should be telling you that.”

“Thank you.” He rested his chin on Yuuri's shoulder. “Thank you so much.”

“For what?” Yuuri asked, smile audible in his voice.

 _For skating. For forgiving me. For doing your best after I screwed up. For looking at me like you still want me even though I_ _hurt_ _you._

_For teaching me some things are more important than gold medals._

Victor swallowed. “For everything.”

Yuuri hummed, and his fingers ghosted up and down Victor's back, a soft and steadying presence all at once. Letting out a sigh, Victor closed his eyes and nuzzled Yuuri's shoulder.

Strange. After all that went down today, it should have been him comforting Yuuri.

The hands on his back went still. “But you know, Victor...”

Victor’s muscles tensed, but he managed to look Yuuri in the eye. “Yes?”

“If you meant to keep our relationship from the media,” Yuuri's lip quirked up, “that’s a _terrible_ way to go about it.”

Victor's whole body slumped with a breath of relief. He leaned his forehead on Yuuri's, and chuckled.

“You sprang a quad flip on the world out of nowhere. I had to top it somehow.”

Yuuri shrugged, still smiling. “I don’t think the ISU rulebook has a point value for making out.”

“Of course not. That’s only for pair skating.”

They both broke into giggles again. Yuuri steadied his breathing, and straightened up. His eyes looked Victor up and down, but a hint of warmth remained in his voice.

“Speaking of pair skating...”

Victor sucked in a breath. He dropped to one knee, hands at Yuuri's sides, and gazed up at him with his best puppy-dog eyes.

“Yuuri Katsuki, _please_ let me join you for your exhibition skate.”

Yuuri stroked his thumb over Victor's cheek. “Even if the whole world sees?”

“Let them.”

Yuuri pulled Victor up and held him tighter than Victor had ever been hugged before. It was impossible to tell who leaned in first, but then their lips were together and Yuuri's fingers were running through Victor's hair, and Victor was on _fire_ in the best possible way.

At some point they managed to rearrange themselves onto the bed, which was far more comfortable than the ice rink. No need for clothes on a bed, either. Victor toyed with the buttons of his suit for a moment before giving in and tossing it onto the floor.

“Victor...”

Yuuri's suit-jacket fit him poorly at the best of times, but it fit especially poorly right now. Victor helped Yuuri shimmy out of it, peppering kisses onto Yuuri's neck.

“Victor, wait.”

He stopped, registered the words, and pulled back. Yuuri was flushed, and his eyes brilliant even at night, but a small frown tugged at his lips. Victor's heart felt tight.

“Something wrong?”

“Nothing big.” Yuuri looked down, plucking at a thread on the sheets. “But, can I ask you something?”

Victor settled against the headrest, trying not to tense up.

“Of course. What's on your mind?”

Yuuri paused for a second, then said, “Why did you threaten to quit?”

The words were soft, but they hit Victor like a slap. Thank god he was already sitting down. He took a few breaths to reorient himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was stupid and I shouldn’t have said it.”

Yuuri shuffled to sit up beside him, not making eye contact, a gap of a few inches between them. He folded his hands in his lap, and sighed.

“I’m not mad anymore. I just want to know, where did _that_ come from? It didn't sound like you.”

It didn't, did it? He'd meant it as a push, after all, and Yuuri hardly ever needed pushing. But an hour ago Yuuri had been breaking apart in front of him, and nothing else had helped. And Victor had felt so helpless, and frustrated, and any second he was afraid Yuuri would start crying—just like fifteen years ago, before Yakov, before Victor could smile on command—

“ _The judges don’t care about your mother. You think she’d want you to sit around crying?”_

“Victor?”

He closed his eyes, and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don't know. Nowhere.”

Yuuri frowned, and opened his mouth to speak. Victor held up a hand.

“Nowhere,” he repeated.

Yakov yelled, sometimes. But he only yelled to motivate his skaters, never to tear them down. He didn't murmur soft, calm words that cut like scalpels at their deepest insecurities, not like _that man_ had. Not like Victor had, even if only by accident.

He suppressed a shudder, and wrapped his arms around himself. He'd cut out his tongue before letting himself sound like _that man_ again.

A soft touch tapped at Victor's elbow, and he looked up to see Yuuri, brows furrowed in concern.

“Did something happen?” Yuuri asked.

Victor laced his fingers in Yuuri's, but couldn't meet his eyes. Yuuri had had more than enough of Victor's problems dumped on him today. He didn't need yet another thing to worry about. He needed to be happy, like Victor should have been doing for him all along.

So Victor smiled.

“Don't worry, my Yuuri. Nothing happened.”

Nothing Yuuri could find evidence of, anyway.

“I just put my foot in my mouth,” Victor said. He gave Yuuri a peck on the cheek. “You may have noticed I'm pretty good at doing that.”

That got Yuuri to chuckle, and he rested his head on Victor's shoulder, thumb caressing their joined hands. Victor leaned back, closing his eyes. He focused on the scent of Yuuri's hair, the press of their bodies together, and the faint rhythm of Yuuri breathing. The memories receded back into the grey void where they were supposed to stay.

Yuuri shifted a little to get more comfortable. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

“We really need to work out what to do when I have anxiety attacks, okay? So you can keep your feet where they're supposed to be.”

Victor hummed, eyes still closed. “Of course. I won't say anything negative during competitions anymore.”

Yuuri's fingers went still. “What if I do something that needs critique, though? Or if there's something I should be doing different?”

“Then I'll save it for afterward, when there's no pressure on you.”

All of Yuuri's body seemed to tense. He breathed in, and sat up, pushing away from Victor.

“No. Don't do that.”

Victor blinked his eyes open, and Yuuri was frowning.

“Even if it's hard for me to hear,” Yuuri said, “I want you to be honest about how I'm doing.”

“But if it makes you anxious—”

“It would be _worse_ if I couldn’t trust you to be open with me. I know that if I can meet _your_ ridiculous standards, I'm doing fine. So don't change that.”

As Yuuri spoke, his tone evened, and Victor watched his chest rise and fall. So calm, now. Not like the hummingbird-trill it must have been when he was crying. Crying because Victor had been _too_ open, and let Yuuri pick up on his insecurities.

“Okay then.” Victor nodded. “I'll keep being honest.”

About skating, at least. That was what mattered. Not Victor's personal issues, which were irrelevant and would only drag Yuuri down. He'd be fully there for Yuuri, as a coach was supposed to be.

Yuuri smiled, so Victor must have said the right thing. Now if he could find more ways to make Yuuri smile, to show him that he met and exceeded Victor's ridiculous standards every day...

Wait a second.

“Yuuri, how are my standards ridiculous?”

Yuuri shifted, and rubbed his neck. “Well...At Regionals, you criticized my programs when everyone else said they were really good. And when I got a personal best in the short program, you were disappointed that I hadn’t passed a hundred points.”

Victor blinked. “Yes?”

Yuuri gave him a flat look. “You know that only eight people in _history_ have passed the hundred-point mark, right? One of whom is you.”

“And as of two days ago, you're number nine.” Victor nudged him. “If I expect ridiculous things from you, it's because you are ridiculously _good_.”

Yuuri merely shrugged. Victor pulled him close again, lips to Yuuri's ear, and continued.

“You are the Ace of Japan, a Grand Prix Finalist, the record-holder for the highest short program TES in history, and the second human being to ever ratify a quad flip.”

Yuuri reddened and looked away, but the corners of his mouth twitched up.

“Excuse me,” Victor said, nuzzling his cheek. “Please pay attention when I’m telling you how brilliant and hard-working my boyfriend is.”

Yuuri covered his mouth with one hand. It didn’t hide his smile at all.

Victor added, “He has the best triple axel in figure skating, you know. His PCS average is unholy. People upload his routines to YouTube _without music_ because his rhythm is so perfect you don’t need a soundtrack. And those videos work as bait to attract other figure skaters who are hopelessly infatuated with him.”

“Victor...”

“Also, if you say ‘Yuuri Katsuki’ three times in the middle of a rink, the ice will resurface itself instantly.”

Yuuri broke into laughter. “Stop that!”

“I’m practicing for our next competition.”

“That’s—” Yuuri twisted around to face him. “It’s funny, but you don't have to put on an act for me.”

“It's not an act.” Victor stroked Yuuri's cheek. “I'm going to be the best coach and boyfriend I can be for you.”

God, Yuuri was beautiful, in his body and his skating and his heart. And Victor would say it as many times as it took for Yuuri to believe it. It was the least he could do after his failure today.

Yuuri leaned forward so their foreheads touched. He smiled faintly, and his voice was soft.

“I just want you to be you.”

Victor grinned back. “What if bragging about you _is_ me being me?”

“Okay, fine.” Yuuri snorted. “But only if you really mean it.”

“Of course I do. I'll love and support you in every way I can. Otherwise, what's the use of me?”

Yuuri’s smile faded at that. He tilted his head, frowning slightly, and Victor tried to look happy. He would _not_ ruin this moment for them.

“Victor, what—”

“What about nonverbal support?”

Yuuri blinked for a second. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Now that we've gone public, I don't have to hold back anymore.”

Yuuri raised his eyebrows. “I wasn't aware you were holding anything back.”

“I mean affection _,_ my Yuuri.” Victor trailed a finger down Yuuri’s side. “Hugs, cuddles, kisses at the rinkside. Whatever helps you relax before it's your turn on the ice.”

Yuuri's eyes widened, then his lips curved into a half-smile that Victor would gladly die for.

“I don’t know.” He grazed a thumb across Victor's collar. “My coach always says I should practice something in private before I do it in competition.”

“Oh, definitely. You should practice with him a _lot.”_

He pressed a kiss against Yuuri’s neck, sending a jolt down Yuuri’s spine. A blush crept up Yuuri's throat, and he swallowed. His eyes flickered across Victor’s form.

“In that case, we'd better get a head start.”

And that was the last coherent thing either of them said that night.

Tragically, they couldn’t get too frisky, not with their exhibition skate tomorrow, but he was still able to give Yuuri a very good time. As they fell asleep, Victor planted a butterfly kiss on Yuuri's temple, a silent promise. He would have to stop being selfish, and become the best man he could be. No, he’d be _perfect._ Yuuri deserved perfection.

Victor would do his research. He’d practice his lines. And he would never make Yuuri worry again.


	19. The Wind

“It’s finished!”

Victor burst into the Kachu Snack Bar, a bag in his hands and a huge grin on his face. He bounded up to the counter and slammed the bag down triumphantly.

Minako sucked in a breath. “What do you mean, finished?”

“The sweater! It’s—” he cut himself off, and darted his eyes around to make sure no one he recognized was present. Phew. He started again in a lower voice. “The sweater I was knitting. I finished the last stitch!”

Minako slammed her hands on the bar and leaned over the bag. “That’s fantastic! Is it in here?”

“Open it up and see!”

She opened it so fast that she nearly tore the lining. Once it was out, she tossed the bag aside, letting it drop to the floor. She unfolded the sweater, revealing its eye-searing glory, and held it up with a beaming smile.

“This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. I love it.”

He pumped a fist in the air. “Isn’t it, though? It’s awful!”

“Ooh, those seams!” She turned it over in her hands. “I didn’t teach you to hide the joins like this!”

He ducked his head. “I learned that from watching videos.”

“Very nice,” she said, nodding in approval. “Very, very nice. Now, let’s look at the inside.”

She turned the sweater inside out, and studied the stitching on the reverse side. After a moment’s glance, she shook her head. She held the fabric up to Victor’s face, and pointed at spots where long strands of yarn were hanging loose. Every time Victor had switched colors, or finished a skein of yarn and started a new one, he had left a couple of yarn ends dangling.

Minako tutted. “You still need to weave in the ends.”

Victor shrugged one shoulder, and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I meant to, but I didn’t know how to do it properly. So I decided wait till the knitting was done, and do it then.”

She scrunched up her nose. “Next time, weave the ends in as you go. So you don’t have to deal with _this_ mess again.”

“I wouldn’t call it a mess.” Victor tugged at one of the strands. “It’s on the inside, so no one will see, anyway. Maybe I could just leave them?”

“Absolutely not!” She pounded the counter with her fist. “Loose ends unravel too easily. They snag on buttons and bra straps. You _will_ weave in your ends.”

He held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”

Victor took the sweater back, and picked up one of the strands. He looped it into a knot, and was about to pull it tight when Minako smacked his hand.

He jerked back. “What was that for?”

“I said _weave_ the ends, not tie them. Knots come undone.”

She sat him down at the bar, pulled out a large, blunt needle, and threaded one end of yarn through its eye. She showed him how to follow along the path of stitches he had made, angling the needle so that the yarn doubled over on itself. By the time she was done, it was hard to tell that the loose strand had ever been there at all.

“There. Like that.”

Victor took up the needle, and wove the ends in one at a time as she had done. Up through a stitch, down through a stitch. Up, then down. Twenty minutes later, he started to see why waiting until the end was a bad idea: squinting at hundreds of tiny stitches, hunched over the counter, was a quick route to headaches and back pain.

Even so, he found himself smiling. This stupid sweater had cast a shadow over his and Yuuri's relationship for _months,_ and it was very nearly over. He'd forced himself not to twitch every time Yuuri opened his closet, or looked around Victor's room. It came between them, literally, since Victor had to knit all the time instead of giving Yuuri attention. Now, with this over, he could finally focus on being the loving, supportive boyfriend Yuuri deserved.

“So,” Minako said, leaning on an elbow, “you and Yuuri finally went public.”

Victor's lip twitched, but kept his eyes on the yarn.

“My customers were betting on how long it would take,” she said. “That kiss cost me 5000 yen.”

His smile widened. “My apologies.”

Her phone buzzed, and she raised an eyebrow at its screen.

“For crying out loud. Can I get some skating news that _isn’t_ you two? Get your publicist on this.”

“My publicist quit months ago.”

“And you haven’t hired a replacement? There’s a fan war between people who support you, people who think Yuuri ‘stole’ you, and very tired people who just want to ogle handsome Swiss men in peace.”

“I’m still not giving you Chris’s phone number.”

She huffed. “I didn’t say it was _him_ _.”_

“You didn’t need to.”

“Anyway...” she drawled, “I can’t get online without running into people arguing about you, so you might want to calm them down.”

He shrugged, still not looking up. “Nah.”

“What do you mean, _nah?”_

“I’ve got a sweater to finish and a boyfriend to coach. Nah.”

Victor had put too much value on what strangers thought of him, especially in China. But his income didn't have to come from his public image anymore. He'd invested his money carefully over the years, and now he could afford _not_ to care. Except about Yuuri, of course. He'd be the best he could for Yuuri, and they'd be happy.

Minako stared at him for a long moment. Then, she shook her head, smiling faintly.

“Fine. Be that way.” She scrolled a bit more, and let out a whistle. “I just hope Yuuri doesn’t see any of this.”

This morning, Yuuri had broken his long era of lurking to tweet a picture of them in bed together. He then cheerfully turned off his notifications, knowing full well how much gasoline he’d poured onto the fire.

Victor chuckled. “I think he’ll be alright.”

An hour later, the last end was woven into the fabric, and Victor’s entire spine and shoulders ached.

“Okay,” he said, setting the sweater down with a big sigh. “Now, it’s finally done.”

Minako raised an eyebrow at him. “Not quite.”

“What?” He rubbed his tired muscles. “Come on. What else could there be?”

“You’ve still got the blocking to do.”

“But that’s just washing it, right?”

Minako petted the fabric. “Some fibers need special care. Is this superwash?”

“Is it what?”

“I’ll assume that’s a no, then.” She straightened up. “But either way, blocking is how you take knitting from ‘fine’ to ‘damn fine.’ Come by my place this afternoon, and I’ll show you how.”

Victor took care to hide the sweater for the rest of the morning. At lunchtime, Mari helped distract Yuuri with chores. Victor returned to Minako’s apartment, sweater in hand.

She filled her kitchen sink with water. “Gently lay the knitting in there.”

“Not the washing machine?”

“That thing’s murdered too many socks to be trusted anymore.”

He set the sweater in the water, and she pressed it into the basin with her hands, hundreds of tiny bubbles escaping beneath it. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, trying not to let his impatience show. Minako pulled out a shampoo bottle.

Victor leaned forward and frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning it. You probably got all kinds of dust and dog hair in the yarn while you were working on it.”

“But with shampoo?”

“What do you think wool __is__ _?”_

“It’s the hair of a sheep...Oh!”

“Exactly.”

She poured a little shampoo into the water, then walked away. Victor frowned down at the sink.

“Ah, Minako? Should I scrub it or something?”

“Never jostle wool while it’s wet.” She took out her own half-finished shawl, and settled on the couch. “It needs time to soak. Give it twenty minutes.”

To his credit, he lasted a full five minutes before she got tired of his fidgeting and made him wind yarn balls for her. When it was time, she drained the water and poured fresh water in to rinse out the shampoo. Fifteen minutes after that, it was time to retrieve the sweater.

Victor held it carefully in his hands, and shivered as water leaked from it onto his shirt. She had him press it with a towel—“Press and pat, do _not_ wring it!”—and lay it flat on the kitchen table.

“Hmm.” She walked around and peered at it from all sides. “On a cool, humid day like this, it’ll take a long time to dry completely. But apart from that,” she grinned up at Victor, “you are _done.”_

He clenched his fists and let out a whoop. “ _Finally!”_

_* * *_

That evening, Victor returned to the Kachu Snack Bar, to celebrate a job well done, and thank god, it _was_ done. At the table, he met three people, without whose help the sweater never could have happened.

“Kampai!”

He raised his glass to the others with a beautiful _tink_. He took a sip, leaned back against his chair, and let out a long sigh. Minako, Mari and Yuuko did much the same.

“Aww,” Yuuko said. “I bet you’re glad that’s over.”

“You have no idea.” He rubbed his shoulder. “I think I’ll have a permanent crick in my neck from all that knitting.”

“Give your hands a break for a week or so,” Minako said. “Carpal tunnel is no joke.”

“Thanks, but I have no plans to pick up the needles again any time soon. It’s done, it’s gone, and good riddance.”

She hummed, and smirked over the rim of her sake cup. “Sure.”

“I’m almost sad it’s done,” Yuuko said, resting her chin on her hands. “I’ve never been part of a conspiracy before.”

Mari raised an eyebrow. “No? You’ve never kept a secret from your kids?”

“I’ve tried! They get into everything!”

Victor thought back to the video they had posted of Yuuri skating _Stammi Vicino_. When they got bigger, they’d probably take over the world.

“Anyway, they’re with Yuuri now,” Yuuko said, and giggled. “I might have guilt-tripped him into signing autographs for them.”

He tilted his head. “Would that really take so long?”

“As long as it would take to get five thousand copies of his signature that they can sell to skating fans online.”

Victor snorted. He’d have to teach them his bookkeeping tips when they got older.

“It’s funny,” he said, “but in a way, I think the train problem may have worked out for the best.”

Mari set her mug down. “How so?”

“My first attempt to make the sweater was terrible. And not just because the original, well...”

“...Looked like Satan had a baby with Bozo the Clown?” Mari offered.

He nearly dropped his glass. “You think so, too?”

She shrugged. “If Yuuri didn’t love it so much, and Mom hadn’t made it, I would have given Makkachin a treat for destroying the ugly thing.”

Victor blinked, then laughed and shook his head.

“Makkachin has strong opinions about clothes, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t apologize. Makkachin is a good girl who isn’t to blame for anything. It’s our job to keep the good girl from getting herself into trouble.”

“Agreed.”

“Honestly,” Yuuko said, “I’m amazed the original survived as long as it did. Mari, didn’t your Mom make it when Yuuri left for America?”

Minako refilled Yuuko’s cup. “Five years is nothing for a well-made sweater. I’ve made socks almost a decade old now.”

Victor’s eyes widened. “A decade?”

“Yep. They fit like a dream, too. Best thing after a long day tending the snack bar and dancing in the studio.”

Victor tapped his chin. He had to replace his socks every month during skating season, and his legs still felt like they could fall off after a full day of training.

“Still,” Minako said, cup to her lips, “it was an atrocious sweater.”

“It _was_ rather attention-grabbing,” he said. “But Hiroko’s work was far better than my first attempt was. My stitches were uneven, the panels were wonky, and there were many spots where I split the yarn or combined two stitches by accident. The second version is much more suitable for Yuuri.”

Minako took a sip of her sake. “Everyone’s first few projects always look awful. That’s how knitting is.”

“First few? I’m not planning to knit anything else.”

Her lips curled into a smile. “Oh? Have you looked at the sock patterns on Ravelry yet?”

“There’s more than one?”

“They have poodles.”

Victor took a moment to mentally process that, images of Yuuri clad in poodle designs bouncing through his head. Then he grabbed his phone and pulled up his web browser. Minako steepled her fingers.

Yuuko rested her chin on her hands and sighed happily. “I can’t wait to see Yuuri at the Final. Maybe he’ll wear the sweater there!”

“Not if I can help it,” Victor said, navigating to Ravelry’s pattern search.

Mari snorted. “He needs to win in Russia first. Minako, will you be going with them?”

“Alas.” Minako exhaled, clinking her bottle on the table. “I haven’t been able to enter the country since the Plushenko incident.”

“I’m sure the Russian embassy would understand if you wrote them a nice letter.”

The pattern database loaded, and Victor was about to type “socks” when one of the featured images caught his eye.

“Minako? Why is there an alligator on a knitting website?”

“Probably because someone knitted an alligator.”

“Who knits an alligator? _Why_ would you knit an alligator?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Why would anyone knit a poodle?”

Victor turned to stare at her. “Do you think they’d have a poodle, too?”

“There’s probably ten. Check the ‘softies’ section.”

He frowned, typed “poodle softies” into the search field, and the results made his jaw drop.

“They have _sixty-six_ types of poodle dolls! And one of them looks just like Makkachin!”

Mari shook her head. “Great, now we’ve lost him.”

Victor ignored her, bookmarking the especially cute patterns (read: all of them). When he reached the end, he leaned back in his seat, tapping his chin. If people could knit poodles and alligators, what else might be lurking in the database? He ran a search for “softies” without the poodle specifier.

While the women chatted about business, family and their pastimes, Victor scrolled through the search results. Over the next few minutes, he found kittens, dolls, dragons, Brussels sprouts, an anatomically correct heart, and a vampire squid named Harvey.

Minako poked him. “You still there?”

“Mhmm.”

She chuckled. “Just make sure that you include the word ‘knitting’ in the search parameters so you don’t get lured to the dark side.”

Victor glanced up from a strangely adorable traffic cone. “The Darth Vader patterns?”

“No.” She scrunched up her nose, and hissed, _“Crochet.”_

“There’s crochet patterns in there?”

“Regrettably.”

Yuuko whispered to him. “Don't mind her. She’s just bitter about crochet because she’s bad at it.”

“I _heard_ that,” Minako said, raising her chin. “And speaking of bitter things, I expect you to compensate me for my assistance.”

Victor frowned. She hadn’t said anything about that before. “What do you—”

She held up a finger. “Yarn. I want yarn.”

He really should have expected that.

“Specifically,” she said, “I want you to bring back yarn from Russia. Selection in Hasetsu is limited, and the shipping fees are obscene. I’ll reimburse you the shop prices, so go wild.”

She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket, and slid it across the table.

“Orenburg lace would be perfect. My dream is to knit one of those shawls so fine it can fit through a wedding ring.” She closed her eyes and sighed dreamily. “But if you can’t get that, I will also accept these brands.”

Victor smiled, and put away the paper. “I’d be delighted to.”

The discussion moved on to business, marketing, and finances. Victor went quiet, studying his dinner companions. For Mari, business meant Yu-Topia. For Minako and Yuuko, it was the ballet studio and ice rink, respectively. Apart from the occasional Japanese word no one knew how to translate, it sounded much like Victor’s old meetings with Dinara and the rest of his “team” in Russia. But it felt different.

He traced a finger around the lip of his glass, watching the beer swirl around inside it. Mari, Minako and Yuuko weren’t here because he was paying them for their skills. They just wanted to celebrate him finally getting that stupid sweater done. Because they were happy for him. For reasons that had nothing to do with how good he looked in magazines or how many medals he could win.

He...he actually had _friends._

Victor took a small sip. His drink was cold, but he felt warm inside.

They had to split up when the triplets’ bedtime approached, and Yuuko couldn’t keep Yuuri distracted by babysitting any longer. She gave Victor a hug as she departed.

“You should hurry back,” she told him. “Or Yuuri might get suspicious that you’ve been skating at other rinks.”

He chuckled. “Thank you for the warning. I’ll see you tomorrow at the usual time?”

“That’s right! Good night.”

Victor and Mari helped Minako put away the chairs for the night, and Minako closed up shop while the two of them returned home.

* * *

The next evening, Mari drafted Yuuri into helping her clean the onsen. Victor took the chance to revisit Minako’s apartment.

“Good evening! It’s finished blocking, I hope?”

She waved him in. “Dry as a bone. Come see!”

The sweater lay on the blocking mat, bright and soft, and it looked better already. The washing process had settled the stitches into shape, and removed all the dust and oils that had stuck to the wool. Victor ran a hand over it, and his eyes widened.

“It’s like petting a baby seal!”

Minako held up one of the sleeves. “Softer than baby hair. Of course, that also means it’s more fragile. You’ll want to hand-wash and air dry it.”

“Do I just block it again for that?”

“That’s right. Now stop stalling and pick it up!”

“What if I damage it?”

“It’s yarn, Victor. It’s meant to be used. If you leave it in a glass display all the time, Yuuri won’t get to enjoy it.”

Ah, right. Yuuri’s happiness was the whole point of this. Victor could already imagine them curled up on the couch, Makkachin sprawled across both of them, Victor’s handiwork hugging Yuuri close. He could see Yuuri’s smile, the brush of Yuuri’s hand against his.

As carefully as if he were picking up an infant, Victor slid his hands under the fabric, and lifted it up to admire. God, it was hideous. Victor shook his head, smiling so wide it hurt his face. He shifted it around until it hung from the shoulders, and pressed it against his chest.

“How do you think my fans would react if they saw me wearing this?”

“Horror and mocking? I’d think you lost a bet with Christophe Giacometti.”

Victor snorted. “Chris wishes he could find something this ugly.”

He rolled up the sweater and hid it in his knitting bag, and returned home with a spring in his step. The Katsukis seemed none the wiser. Hiroko was surprised but pleased by his peppy attitude, and he shared a wink with Mari. He gave Yuuri a quick but loving hug, and they shared a kiss before Yuuri went off to bed. This time, he made no objection when Yuuri slept in his own room, and Makkachin stayed with him.

Victor carried the sweater to the closet, and hung it from a coat hanger. It drooped, like the pelt of a skinned harlequin, and clashed violently against Victor’s designer suits and workout clothes. He patted it, enjoying the soft, hideous yarn under his fingers. Then he checked on his jade plant, which was growing nicely, and turned off the lights.

Victor could hardly sleep that night. In a few hours he would drop off the loathsome thing and be rid of it. He would finally have spare time again. His hands wouldn’t threaten to fall off every evening. He’d be able to go out with Yuuri more, making goofy ninja poses in the yard of Hasetsu Castle, throwing seeds to the ducks in the river, and generally being able to live.

Of course, there were the Rostelecom Cup and the Final to train for, but Yuuri was getting better all the time. Maybe when he took gold at those, the world would recognize Yuuri as an artistic genius in his own right, and not as Victor’s “project.” They might even realize that Victor was serious about coaching, and stop asking him when he’d return to competition himself.

Victor drifted off, sleeping alone but peaceful, and his body rose with the Sun. He yawned, got out of bed, and opened the closet door to dress himself, rubbing the sleep-dust from his eyes.

The sight before him made him freeze.

Overnight, the sweater had stretched out of shape. The shoulder seams slouched nearly to the elbows, and the clown face looked like it had gotten trapped in a fun-house mirror. Far from fitting Yuuri’s slender form, the now-monstrous nightmare would be large on a silverback gorilla. Not only could it no longer pass as the original, it barely even resembled human clothing. Victor had to clap a hand over his mouth to avoid crying out in horror.

He rushed to the dining room, and burst in on Yuuri halfway through his breakfast.

“Practice is canceled! Take the morning off!” His eyes darted toward Yu-Topia’s front door. Minako was supposed to supervise Yuuri’s ballet cross-training today. “Actually, take the afternoon off, too.”

Yuuri paused with his chopsticks in midair. “Victor? What’s going on?”

Victor took a deep breath. “Everything’s fine.”

“It doesn’t sound fine.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Small thing came up for me. Nothing you need to worry about. Take a rest day, okay?”

He ran back to his room without waiting for a response, hid the sweater in a nondescript bag, and tucked it under his arm. Footsteps sounded from the lobby—Yuuri’s. He’d ask what was wrong. He’d be worried. And when he looked up at Victor with those kind brown eyes, Victor wouldn’t be able to deny him anything.

Victor evaded him by running out through the outdoor onsen. Mari glanced up halfway through uncovering the pool.

“Victor? What’s up?”

“Sweater problem. Distract Yuuri if he asks. Please.”

He ran up to the fence, took a flying leap, and vaulted over with the sweater in tow. He landed in the alley beyond, and circled around to the gate. He jumped onto his bike and took off for Minako’s studio, cold wind blazing in his face.

The door slammed open with a bang. “Minako! Bad news, the—”

Minako silenced him with a glare of liquid murder, the kind only middle-aged ballerinas could muster.

 _“Nikiforov,”_ she whispered, in a voice that shook him in his shoes, “it’s seven in the morning. Can your antics wait until I’ve finished my coffee?”

Victor clutched the bag to his chest. “Yes, ma’am.”

She sat him down at the table by the studio entrance, and leaned against the counter, sipping her mug. Victor bounced his knees, periodically peeking inside the bag, as if the sweater would magically return to its intended size. Minako set down her cup with a clink.

“For god’s sake, calm down. I’m sure whatever it is can’t be that bad.”

Victor gulped. “I hope you’re right.”

“I usually am. Now, what’s got you breaking into my workplace at this unholy hour?”

He jumped to his feet, removed the sweater from the bag, and lay it on the table. Minako peered over it. She frowned, held it up to her shoulders, and watched the hem fall far below where it was supposed to.

“Oh, _boy_.”

Victor tensed, hand fiddling with his collar. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Typical gauge error,” she muttered. “Your stitch size was off. Did you make a test square and measure the stitches before starting?”

“Yes! Multiple times. I got the math exactly right.”

“Did you _block_ the square, hang it up like you would a sweater, and check it again?”

She lay the sweater back on the table, and stared hard at him. Victor shrank back.

“Should I have done that?”

Minako’s gaze dropped, and Victor felt his heart drop as well.

“I should’ve done that,” he mumbled.

“You really should.” She stepped back, hand rubbing at her neck. “Do you remember what fiber it is? Some of them can shrink or bounce back.”

Victor tapped his chin. “Not off the top of my head, no. But I know the brand and yarn line?”

“That will do. It should be in Ravelry’s database.”

He told her the names, and she tapped away at her phone. Victor felt a cold pit aching in his stomach. Every time he looked at the sweater, it seemed to grow longer.

“Minako,” he asked in a small voice, “is there a way to make a knitted item smaller? You said nearly any mistake can be fixed.”

She hummed. “There’s felting, but that would change the texture of the fabric too much for anyone to believe this is the original sweater. And there’s cutting, but that would remove big parts of the intarsia, ruining the clown’s face.”

“But that defeats the whole point of making it!”

“Uh-huh.” Minako tapped again at her phone, gasped, and smacked herself in the face. “Argh!”

Victor clutched the sweater to his chest. “What’s wrong?”

“No wonder it’s so soft!” She held her phone screen up to his eyes, displaying the yarn label. “This is pure alpaca!”

“Is that bad?”

“Alpaca wool,” she said, rubbing her forehead, “is known for two things. One, it’s extremely soft and warm. Two, it stretches. And it does _not_ un-stretch.”

Oh. Oh, _no._

He slumped. “Is there anything else we could try? Please say yes.”

Minako stared at the sweater, which somehow looked even bigger now, and let out a deep sigh.

“As a last resort, I’d suggest unraveling and re-knitting the whole thing. But since you had to cut so many yarn pieces to make the intarsia...”

“There’s not enough yarn left to even make the sweater again.”

They both gazed despondently at the sweater, which looked more and more like an exceptionally soulless Snuggie, and which could never hope to pass for the sweater that Makkachin had destroyed.

_Beep-beep!_

Victor startled. He drew his phone out of his pocket, and blanched at the number calling. He took a deep breath, and brought it to his ear.

“Hello, Yuuri?”

“Victor!” Yuuri’s voice was taut, and it hurt Victor’s heart. “Are you okay? You left home really fast.”

“I’m fine.”

He would have said more, would have come up with something smooth and reassuring, but his throat closed up at the sight of the six-month-long mistake leering up at him from the table. Minako patted his shoulder and stepped away.

“You don’t sound fine,” Yuuri said. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me, you know?”

“I know.” The gnawing in his stomach grew colder. He couldn’t make Yuuri start worrying about him again. Not after he’d driven Yuuri to tears during the Cup of China. Not when he’d vowed to become better, to never hurt Yuuri again.

Yuuri waited for him on the other end of the line, before sighing. “Or, if you don’t want to talk, that’s okay, too.”

Victor gripped the edge of the table tight. “I’m sorry. Please. Just give me time.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be fine,” Victor said. “It’s no big deal, I’m just being silly about something. So don’t worry, okay?”

“I’m afraid I can’t promise you that,” Yuuri said softly. “But if you need space, or if you need someone to sit with you without making you talk...”

Victor closed his eyes, heart stuttering, and let his head hang down. God, what had he done to deserve Yuuri Katsuki?

(He didn’t. The stupid sweater was proof of that.)

Minako came back and set a cup of coffee down in front of him. He gave her a grateful nod.

“Thank you,” he said, to her and Yuuri at once. “I’ll be home this evening, okay?”

“Alright,” Yuuri said. “Stay warm out there.”

Victor hung up, and lay the phone on the table without looking at it. He drank a little without tasting it. Mostly, he stared at the patterns in the wood-grain on the floor, while Minako prepared to open her studio around him.

Victor had promised to become better. To become _good_ enough, for Yuuri. To scrub away at this stain on their relationship until the mark was gone, to free himself from the invisible deadline when Yuuri would notice what he’d lost. Victor had promised. And he failed.

Three different incarnations of this sweater, and he’d managed to ruin all of them. Maybe there really was a boyfriend sweater curse. Or maybe Victor should have just stuck to skating and coaching—not that he’d been much better as a coach.

After some hazy span of time, Minako lay her hand on his shoulder, waking him from his daze. “My first class is starting soon.”

Victor set down the cup, and numbly folded the sweater back into the bag.

“I guess I’ll take this home, then.”

She bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Victor.”

“Not your fault. You’ve been amazing.” He bowed deeply in return. “Even if it didn’t work out in the end, you taught me a lot, and I couldn’t have gotten this far without your help.”

A corner of her mouth quirked up. “Thank you. Try not to be too hard on yourself, okay? Every knitter does this at some point.”

Victor shrugged, and opened the door of her studio. He stepped out, into the pale morning light, and a torrent of frigid air blasted him in the face.

The wind howled around him, sky grey and trees fluttering, and the few pedestrians out at this hour hurried past in coats and scarves. Victor watched them, eyes wide, a chill sinking into his bones.

Winter had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real patterns mentioned in this chapter include: [poodle socks](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/poodle-socks-and-necktie-7291), [alligators](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/baby-gators), [Brussels sprouts](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/brussels-sprouts-2), [the anatomically correct heart](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/heart-7), [the traffic cone](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/traffic-cone), and [Harvey the vampire squid](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/harvey-the-vampire-squid). Along with many patterns for kittens, dolls, poodles and dragons.
> 
> Crochet is a great craft in its own right; Minako is just biased.


	20. The Diamond

Victor idled around town for the rest of the day, finding excuses not to come home until bedtime. The walk back to Yu-Topia was cold and dark, and he snuck in through the back door to avoid having to make conversation with anyone. He hid the ruined sweater in Tchaikovsky, hugged Makkachin tight, and eventually managed to fall into fitful sleep.

The next few days passed in a grey fog. A literal grey fog, thanks to the cold front that swept through the area. The first time he and Yuuri practiced, Victor had to fight not to stiffen every time Yuuri looked at him, as if Yuuri might see the truth written on Victor’s face. Yuuri frowned and asked, “Are you okay?” but didn’t press the issue.

After that, Victor put on a cheerful attitude whenever they were together, but every time he smiled, he felt a little more drained, and after a while his stomach started to turn whenever he tried. He took to spending more time alone, just to get a break, until one morning he woke up, staring at the ceiling, and couldn't bring himself to move.

Makkachin shuffled up to his side, and batted at him through the sheets with her paw.

Victor groaned. “Sorry, girl. Be patient.”

He rubbed his eyes and made his best Yuuri impression, pulling the covers over his head and pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist. Or at least, ignoring one tiny part of the world, which was made from alpaca yarn and now radiated an aura of failure.

Makkachin whimpered again. He ran a hand through his hair, and dragged himself out of bed, wincing when his feet hit the cold floor. He went through the motions of his morning routine, and tossed on his clothes without bothering to coordinate them.

Outside, the blustery cold front woke him up, and Makkachin stuck closer to his side than usual. Yuuri must have taken this route a thousand times in the darkness, running for the skating rink when everyone else in town was sleeping. How many times had he worn his handmade sweater while he ran? Did he remember it with the same fondness as his old skates and the ice?

Maybe Victor would get lucky, and Yuuri wouldn’t notice the sweater was missing. He hadn’t looked for it in six months, after all. Yes, that was it. And they were both too busy with the Grand Prix to care about little things like that. By the time this season was over, Yuuri would probably have forgotten the sweater entirely. It would be fine.

Victor returned to Yu-Topia, and hung up Makkachin’s collar and leash, along with his coat. Toshiya was cooking breakfast, Mari was clearing the lobby for customers, and Hiroko was giving the onsen one final check-up.

Yuuri didn’t come out of his room until it was time to eat. He sat down at Victor’s side as Hiroko set out the plates.

“Cold,” Yuuri muttered, wrapping his arms around himself. “Thanks, Mom.”

Victor mentally winced. He forced himself to smile.

“Ah, this is cold for here?”

Yuuri nodded. “You’d think after Detroit I’d be used to it. But no.”

“Perhaps it will warm up this afternoon.”

It was more wishful thinking on Victor’s part than anything else. Yuuri paused halfway through the meal to rub his arms.

“Has anyone seen my clown sweater? The one Mom made?”

Victor and Mari froze, food in their mouths, and shared a glance. So much for Yuuri forgetting about it.

Hiroko paused, chopsticks at her chin. “It’s not in your room? That’s where I last saw it.”

Yuuri shook his head. “I’ve checked my closet and drawers and everything.”

He sighed, and his whole body slumped a little. The sight tugged at Victor’s chest.

“Well, I’ll check the winter closet,” Hiroko said. “Maybe it’s in there.”

“I’ll look in the laundry,” Toshiya added.

Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the floor. “I’d really appreciate that.”

Victor gulped. Mari was visibly trying not to squirm. As they stacked the dishes, she took him aside and whispered in his ear.

“If you don’t want to tell him, I won’t either.”

Victor turned to her, eyes wide. “Really?”

She glanced back at Yuuri, who was now rifling through the hall closets.

“You’ve been given enough grief over this thing already. It was an accident. You spent six months trying to fix it. I won’t blame you if you’re fed up with it and want to walk away.”

Victor’s eyebrows rose, and he bowed his head, slightly enough to avoid drawing attention from the others.

“Thank you, Mari.”

She shrugged and placed her dishes in the sink. “Help me with these, and we’ll call it even.”

Over the next few minutes, as Victor scrubbed and Mari dried, he heard doors opening and closing all over the house, followed by Yuuri’s increasingly frustrated muttering. Yuuri carried plenty of other clothes to and fro, rearranging things that had gotten lost or out of order years ago, but with every pass, his shoulders slumped a little more. Even when he carried some perfectly lovely sweaters back to his room, he didn’t put them on.

Victor’s hands fumbled one of the dishes, and it clattered in the sink. He flinched at the noise.

Perhaps this was for the best. As long as the sweater was missing, Yuuri might worry, and he might be sad, but that would be all. If Victor told him the truth, Yuuri would be hit with the fact that he’d never see his mother’s handiwork again. The part of herself she’d poured into it, the part he’d held close for five years in Detroit, was gone, and there would never be another like it, because Hiroko’s hands couldn’t hold the needles anymore. And all because of a stupid, avoidable mistake.

With the dishes complete, he and Yuuri returned to Ice Castle and resumed their usual practice session. Yuuko beamed at them. But when she saw Victor, her smile went stiff. She looked back and forth between him and Yuuri. Victor shook his head ever so slightly, and she mercifully waved them through without asking questions.

Yuuri, however, furrowed his brows, and leaned forward.

“Victor? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Victor sat down and retrieved his skates. “Let’s get warmed up. What do you think would best help your flip technique?”

Yuuri frowned, and brushed his fingers over Victor’s forehead.

“If you’re not feeling okay, we can cancel.”

“I’m fine. Just thinking, that’s all. So, the flip?”

Yuuri was still frowning, but he let the matter drop.

As their skating session that day progressed, Yuuri landed his jumps cleanly, but his movements were stiff, and his eyes lacked their usual spark. He snuck several concerned glances at Victor.

“Focus, Yuuri. Keep your mind on the present moment.”

Yuuri grunted. “Yeah, yeah.”

Not that Victor was doing much better at that. He kept his eyes on Yuuri, like a proper coach should have done. But as Yuuri’s partner and a world champion, shouldn’t he be more than just an ordinary coach? Shouldn’t he be better than this?

Life had been simpler, back in Russia. His worth there merely depended on the medals he could bring home and the price he could command of his sponsors. Like a diamond, tough and glittering and expensive. Impervious. But then Yuuri had come along, and cracked him in two like so much broken glass.

When Yuuri looked at him, did he see the gem Victor had cut and polished over twenty years, or did he see the shards? What would he see, if he knew the truth?

Victor blinked, and behind his eyelids he saw Yuuri crying in a parking garage in China, crying because of Victor’s mistakes.

If it were only about the sweater, it wouldn’t be so bad. But ruining a handmade gift from Yuuri’s mother and lying about it for six months?

“Something is wrong.”

Victor jerked up, and Yuuri was facing him on the other side of the rink barrier, lips pressed in a thin line.

Victor straightened up. “Your step sequence was stiffer than usual, yes.”

“No, it’s not that.” Yuuri clenched a hand on the barrier. “You’ve barely said a word all session. It’s like you’re hardly here.”

“I’m just considering things, that’s all.” He managed to smile. “I don’t want to interrupt your focus.”

Yuuri watched him for a second more, then leaned forward, reaching out a hand. Victor tried not to lean away. Yuuri’s hand came to rest, feather-light, on Victor’s shoulder. His thumb brushed over a seam.

“Your shirt’s inside out.”

Victor jolted, and looked down. “So it is.”

“Victor.” Yuuri’s voice became hard. “What’s going on?”

This time, Victor did lean away.

“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” He clapped his hands together. “Ah! Your flip is improving. Do you want to switch to lifts next?”

Yuuri’s shoulders hunched. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not. I’m doing my job as your coach.”

Yuuri’s hands were tight on the rink wall now, and his eyes flickered over Victor’s body before returning to study Victor’s face. As the seconds ticked by, Victor’s smile faded, and he had to look away.

“At Regionals,” Yuuri said, “I pushed away someone who really cared about me because I was too wrapped up in my own worries. You’re the one who called me out on that. How can you turn around now and do the same thing to me?”

Victor drew a breath. He closed his eyes, and let it out.

“That...was not my intention.”

Yuuri was silent for a moment. Then, there was a faint hiss from the ice, and Victor looked up to see Yuuri leaving the rink.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” Yuuri said, sitting down at a bench. “But don’t tell me you’re fine when you’re not.”

Victor hovered near him, unsure what to do. “Yuuri?”

“I can’t concentrate like this.” He changed back into his shoes. “I’m going to the studio, okay?”

Victor stepped back, skin cold as the ice itself, tongue frozen. His insides twisted into knots as Yuuri packed his bag and stood up. Yuuri was nearly at the door when Victor finally managed to call out.

“Wait!”

Yuuri stopped. He looked over his shoulder, a distant spark of something in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

Victor opened his mouth, fingers twisting the hem of his shirt, and said, “Stay safe.”

Yuuri smiled faintly, though whether it was real, Victor couldn’t tell.

“You, too.”

The door shut behind him with a small click, and Victor watched it long after Yuuri was no longer visible through the glass. The knots eventually turned to numbness, and he collapsed on the same bench Yuuri had.

“Well,” said a voice behind the counter, “that could’ve gone worse.”

He startled. “Ah, Yuuko! Sorry, I forgot you were there.”

“No worries!” She waved her hands. “I didn’t want to distract you. You’ve got enough on your mind already.”

Victor let his head fall back against the wall. “Thank you.”

He took a few moments to close his eyes and breathe. Then, stiffly, he began packing his own bag to depart. Yuuko leaned her elbows on the counter, watching him.

“He has a point, you know.”

Victor put his skates away, not looking up. “I’m not trying to shut him out.”

“No,” she said softly. “You’re trying to protect him. But I think you’ll find that he doesn’t need protecting.”

Victor paused, hand on a zipper.

Long before Victor, Yuuri had reached the Grand Prix Final on his own. Before _that,_ he’d left behind everyone he knew to chase his dream in a foreign country. Even now, he stepped onto the ice even when every nerve in his body was screaming to run away, he kept getting up no matter how many times he fell, and he never, ever stopped.

“No,” Victor said. “I don’t suppose he does.”

He waved goodbye to Yuuko, and left for Yu-Topia.

The wind was blowing hard through town this morning, but it was always coldest across the bridge, where the sea breeze strengthened it and nothing stood in its way. He and Yuuri had passed over here many times: for training, for going to Ice Castle, for walking hand in hand in the evenings together. Now he walked it alone, coat pulled tight around him.

What if Yuuko was right? What if he did tell Yuuri about the sweater?

Yuuri probably wouldn’t tell him to go back to Russia. He wasn’t petty like that. Besides, it was a terrible strategic idea to cut ties with his coach halfway through the Grand Prix series. But whether he’d trust Victor again, whether he’d even _like_ Victor after such a long lie, Victor couldn’t say.

Most likely, they’d finish out December on distant terms, and Yuuri would pay Victor’s coaching fees, and that would be the end of them. Yuuri would find a real coach to carry him through Worlds, and Victor would go back to Russia to do...something. He hadn’t the faintest idea what.

All because of that damned sweater.

Victor arrived at Yu-Topia without remembering the walk there. He hugged Makkachin in his room, kept to himself for the rest of the day, and claimed a headache so as to skip the family dinner and go to bed early. He lay in bed for hours, trying not to think.

With Mari’s permission, he could pretend to be ignorant about the sweater’s fate, and wash his hands of the matter. He could donate his alpaca disaster to the local clothing supplier for giants, if such a thing existed. Or maybe to an animal shelter. Cats and dogs didn’t care if their beds looked like the physical embodiment of regret.

If he dumped the sweater, Yuuri wouldn’t be disappointed in him, because Yuuri had never even known about it. Victor could throw out his needles and get on with his life. It wouldn’t even be another lie, technically. Just...not describing everything that happened out loud.

It still felt wrong.

At 4 a.m., he gave up on getting any sleep, and sat down on the couch in Yu-Topia’s lobby, not bothering to turn on the light. He wrapped his blanket around himself and stared off into space. His arms ached to hold something warm and soft, but Makkachin was with Yuuri tonight, and Yuuri was fast asleep.

When Victor was little, his mother had always told him not to lie. Lies became bigger lies, and soon they’d grow beyond your control, and they’d come back to hurt you or someone you cared about.

She had told him about his father, though it bowed her shoulders and strained her voice to say. She didn’t promise they’d still be able to afford skating when he got older. And on the hospital bed, while everyone else pretended she would get better, she told him the truth, and held him until she no longer could.

Then came his legal guardian and the Skating Federation and coaches and medals. In came cameras, microphones, and selfies, while at home he counted every ruble. Glittering costumes, glamorous photoshoots, ecstatic fans crowning him with flowers and expecting him to act like his mother wasn’t dead.

It was all very pretty, in a hateful sort of way.

But no sponsor wanted their brand associated with a boy who talked about dead parents and money problems. No judge would go easy on him if he missed a jump because he was grieving. They wanted the diamond, not the glass. And how do you make a diamond shine? By cutting off every piece of it that’s ugly or flawed.

Victor couldn’t cut out his heart, but he could bury it, and build walls around it. And so he’d ignored it for fifteen years, until he’d forgotten it was even there.

Then he met Yuuri Katsuki.

Or rather, Yuuri Katsuki had burst into his life, and _reached_ him in a way no one else could. He gave Victor a taste of realness, and lured him to a town that slowly chipped away at Victor’s walls. So slowly, Victor hadn’t even noticed until now. It was a relief, in some ways—yet terrifying, to see his self-control slipping away.

A light flicked on, and he heard a loud “Eek!”

Victor shot up, heart in his throat, blinking at the sharp brightness. When his vision cleared, he stood face to face with Hiroko.

“Sorry,” he said, bowing slightly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She shook her head. “It’s fine, Vicchan. This is your home, too. Couldn’t sleep?”

Victor’s hands tightened in the blanket he was wrapped in. He nodded.

Hiroko gave him a soft smile. “I need to set things up for the day, so this won’t be a good place to rest.”

“That’s fine.” He swallowed. “Can I help with anything?”

“If you want to. Could you arrange the lounge?”

His shoulders relaxed. Perfect. He could do something useful for once, but not have to make eye contact with Yuuri or Hiroko.

“Of course.”

He returned his blanket to his room, then got to work, while Hiroko ran the water in the onsen. Yu-Topia’s lounge sat between the lobby, the onsen, and the kitchen. Last night, the tables and screens had been put away to clean the floor, so Victor set about putting them back. Hiroko passed by a few times. She always sent him a smile that he barely managed to return.

Lying came easily to him. But now the glass had been broken, and every time he saw her, the shards dug at him a little more.

Hiroko didn’t smile when she was sad. Toshiya didn’t hide it when his back was hurting him. Even Mari, reserved as she was, would confront you head-on instead of talking dirt behind your back. They were honest, in a way the cameras never were.

As he set the last row of paper screens in place, Victor glanced up, and his eyes fell upon a cabinet by the television. And on that cabinet’s shelves, stood a dozen of Yuuri’s skating trophies. Not all of them, of course. Yuuri had run out of room and stored the extras in his closet and in Ice Castle’s display cases. But here, Victor found himself approaching, and studying, the golden figures on their pedestals.

Yuuri had grown up in a similar situation as Victor, with his own reasons to pretend. But he never tried to hide his shaking hands and stuttering voice in interviews. When he placed last in the Grand Prix Final, the media printed headlines about his anxiety and low self-esteem, as if they weren’t picking apart a real human’s vulnerabilities for their own amusement.

Victor would have felt mortified. Violated. But Yuuri shrugged it off, laced up his skates, and went out on the ice again. And as he skated, he poured out his soul, all his fears and hopes and love, heart open and blazing and _real_ in a way no other skater could match. Yuuri took the most fragile parts of himself, and forged them into something beautiful to share with the world.

No wonder Victor hadn’t been able to get Yuuri out of his head after Sochi. No wonder Yuuri’s _Stammi Vicino_ video had transfixed him. How could he not be drawn in, by a man undaunted by Victor’s deepest fear? A man who let the world see _him,_ and not a pretty lie?

A thin layer of dust had collected over the figures. Victor borrowed a washcloth from the kitchen, and gently wiped them clean.

What would Yuuri think of him, if he knew Victor had been lying to him for six months? What would Hiroko think?

Would Yuuri be angry, like Victor had been angry when he ran back to the pawn shop in St. Petersburg, competition winnings in hand, only to find them closed before he could retrieve his mother’s ring? He had wanted to scream. He’d wanted to cry. But not a single person from the old shop remained at the new one, and he had no one to blame except himself.

At least in Victor’s case, he _could_ blame himself. Yuuri was completely faultless in the loss of his sweater. He’d done nothing to deserve this.

But he did deserve the truth.

He deserved to know who to shout at. He deserved closure, an answer, instead of being left in the dark. And he deserved a boyfriend who took responsibility for his faults.

Victor shuddered. How had his mother endured it? How had she lived by the cold and jagged truth, instead of protecting him—protecting _herself—_ with fluffy little lies?

Yuuko was wrong. Victor hadn’t been been keeping this secret to protect Yuuri. He’d been protecting _himself_ from the consequences of his own actions. Yuuri was strong, much stronger than Victor, and could certainly handle the loss of a sweater. But Victor didn’t want to risk losing his relationship, didn’t want to make _himself_ uncomfortable by facing Yuuri’s pain.

To think, the so-called Hero of Russia was too scared—no, too _selfish—_ to talk about a stupid sweater. Winning medals didn’t make him a hero. Heroism meant courage, honesty, and doing what was right even when it hurt.

Victor closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He walked to the front desk, where Hiroko had returned, and was now opening the account books for the day. “Hiroko?”

“Yes, Vicchan?”

“Can you let Yuuri know I’ll be back in a few hours? There’s something I have to do.”

“Of course,” she said, and her eyes softened. “Good luck.”

Victor swallowed, and didn’t ask her why she’d said that. His thoughts were probably written all over his face. With one last hug for Makkachin, he left Yu-Topia and headed for the shopping district.

He was no hero. But, perhaps, he could be his mother’s son.


	21. The Truth

Victor opened the door, gift bag in his hand, heart in his throat, and quietly stepped into Yuuri’s room.

Yuuri’s clothes were scattered all over the bed, floor and desk. He was waist-deep in the closet, only his back and legs visible between hangers of t-shirts and pants. The sight of it twisted Victor’s stomach further.

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri looked up, one hand on a coat hanger. “Hmm?”

“I brought you something.”

“Oh? What is it?”

Victor handed the bag to him, and Yuuri sat down on his bed. He reached inside, tissue paper crinkling, and drew out a burgundy cable-knit sweater. For a moment, he frowned, then sucked in a breath. He snorted and shook his head.

“You remembered the cashmere sweater thing? That was months ago.”

Victor shrugged. “I know, it’s not the same as something your mother made, but...”

“No, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Yuuri smiled and set it off to the side. He picked up the bag again, frowned at the weight still in it, and dug through the last bit of tissue. When he spotted the last items remaining, his eyes lit up, and he scrunched up his face and held the gifts aloft.

“Victor...”

Victor averted his gaze from the eye-searing accessories that would forever haunt his credit card history.

“Yes, Yuuri?”

“These ties are paisley. In lime green and mauve. With scalloped edges.”

Victor coughed, still shielding his eyes. “You had some like that in your collection. I thought you’d like more.”

“You once laid my ties in a pentagram and tried to exorcize them.”

“Yes, well.” Victor shifted and crossed his arms. “But do you like them?”

“I love them. But you know my birthday isn’t until next week?”

“It’s not a birthday present.”

“Do you need help hiding a body? We have space under the flowerbeds.”

Apparently, Yuuri had picked up more than dance techniques from Minako.

“No, no!” Victor waved his hands. “No one is dead. It’s about something Makkachin did.”

Yuuri watched him for a moment, then stuffed the ties in his pockets, and pushed the cashmere sweater off to the side. He patted the other end of the bed, and Victor sat.

“Alright,” Yuuri said. “What happened?”

Victor took a deep breath, hands clasped in his lap. There was no use in stalling anymore. He raised his eyes to Yuuri’s.

“Your sweater. The terrib—the terrific one your mother made, with the clown face. Makkachin got to it.”

“Ah.” Yuuri glanced toward the door. “Did she wet on it or something? It can be washed.”

“No. She...she tore it up.”

Yuuri blinked at that, eyes wide. A shadow of understanding drew slowly across his features, like a cloud across the Sun. He looked away, and fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. For the first time Victor noticed how small the room was around them, and the air itself felt stiff.

Yuuri whispered, “When did this happen?”

Victor shifted, stomach tight. “About six months ago.”

“And you didn’t tell me then?”

“I didn’t want you to be hurt. I meant to get it fixed, and to put it back with the rest of your clothes.”

“Oh?” Yuuri’s voice lifted, then faltered again. “But it didn’t work out, did it?”

Victor rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away.

“I promise it wasn’t on purpose. Your mother made it. I wouldn’t...”

Yuuri raised a hand. “I know you wouldn’t. You’re not like that.”

Victor let out a breath, and laced his fingers around one knee, staring at the floor.

“I’m sorry. I tried to get it repaired, I didn’t want you to be upset—I tried, but...”

His throat seemed to close up on its own, and the words flew away from him. Yuuri leaned over and lay his hand on Victor’s shoulder.

“Is this what you’ve been worrying about all week?”

Victor nodded.

Yuuri said, “Oh, thank _god.”_

Victor jerked up. Yuuri slumped forward beside him, and let out a long, heavy sigh.

“I was so worried,” he said. “All sorts of terrible scenarios were running through my head.”

Victor stared at him. “You’re not angry?”

“I’m sad it’s gone, yeah.” He rubbed his forehead. “And I am a little mad, but only because I’ve been freaking out for no reason.”

Victor winced. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He shook his head. “What matters is that you’re okay.”

That made Victor feel about three inches tall. He looked back toward the floor, bit the inside of his lip, and pressed his hands between his knees to keep them still.

“I,” he said, “I really am sorry. For the sweater. For hiding it, and for shutting you out. I never meant...” He stopped, and shook his head. “No. I was a coward.”

Beside him, Yuuri was silent. Then, he put his arm around Victor’s back, and pulled him in. Victor tensed for a second, before letting his head rest on Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Do you remember,” Yuuri said, “when I skipped practice, back in May? I felt _horrible._ I was sure you’d be mad, but with every minute that passed, it got harder and harder to move. Until I was hiding in my blanket hating myself and scared of losing everything.”

Victor swallowed, and lay a hand over Yuuri’s knee. “I wasn’t mad.”

“No,” Yuuri said, thumb stroking Victor’s shoulder. “You weren’t. Then, when I told you about my anxiety problem, I was terrified it would sound like I was crazy or making excuses for myself. But you just said, we’d figure out how to work with it.”

Victor lowered his gaze. “And in China I let you down.”

“Shh. What I’m trying to say is, I get it.” He pulled Victor closer. “I know what it’s like when your brain gets stuck on something small and turns it into a disaster.”

For a moment, Victor could only blink. But Yuuri held him firm, with his words as much as his touch, and then Victor was hugging him back and pressing his face to the crook of Yuuri’s shoulder.

"...I love you.”

He felt more than heard the soft huff of a chuckle. With one hand, Yuuri twined Victor’s fingers in his own, and the other traced faint strokes across Victor’s back. The knots in Victor's chest loosened a little. He sighed.

“I think,” he said, “before I came to Hasetsu, I hadn’t been okay for a long time.”

Yuuri’s hand went still.

“People stopped trying to get to know me,” Victor said. “They saw me on TV and the internet, and thought that’s all I was. After a while, I started to believe them.”

“Victor...”

“They thought I must have been happy, and I assumed they were right. Until I couldn’t tell what my own feelings were anymore, much less share them with other people.”

Yuuri said nothing, but his eyes narrowed, and his fingers curled tight around Victor's.

“So I want you to know,” Victor said, “that if it’s hard for me to be open sometimes, it’s not because of you. With you, I always want to be real.”

His voice had dropped nearly to a whisper, and when he finished, the room was quiet. Yuuri let his hand go. He turned toward Victor fully, and wrapped both arms around him.

“I’ve been trying to open up to people more, too,” Yuuri said. “It _is_ hard. But ever since you came here, and you accepted me as I was, I promised myself I'd keep trying.”

Victor's eyes widened. “Because of me?”

“That's right.”

Oh. Oh, _damn._

All this time, Yuuri had been struggling with the same problem. But Yuuri wasn't weak. He faced down his fears every day, not only toward other people, but also by facing _himself_ and resolving to do better. He took ownership of his mistakes and made amends where he could. He didn't always succeed, but he always tried.

If Yuuri wasn't selfish or cowardly or a fake...then Victor wasn't, either.

“If you're going to keep trying,” Victor said, hugging Yuuri back, “then I will, too.”

Yuuri stroked his hair. “Then I want to help you, like you did for me.”

Victor smiled. “You already have.”

They stayed there for a long time, holding each other, Yuuri’s breath a steady rhythm in Victor’s ear. It was long past the hour for training to begin, but neither of them moved to get up. From far down the hall, the distant chatter of voices mingled with the occasional bark, as Yu-Topia’s morning customers trickled in.

“By the way,” Yuuri said, “are you sure the sweater was beyond repair? Perhaps there’s still a way to fix it.”

Victor grunted, eyes drifting to a corner of the room.

“I consulted a knitting forum. They said there was no point. It would have to be completely remade, and I tried, but it didn’t work out.”

Yuuri pulled back slightly.

“You tried?” he asked. “Tried what, knitting it again?”

“Yes.” Victor cleared his throat. “I think I should stick to skating.”

“Can I see it?”

Victor glanced back to him, and frowned at the bright spark in Yuuri’s eyes. A spark that would be snuffed out when he saw that the finished object could only fit an elephant.

“It’s really not worth the time,” Victor said.

“I still want to see it.”

“It doesn’t even fit you.”

Yuuri grabbed Victor’s shoulders. “You mean you _finished_ it?!”

Victor couldn’t meet his gaze. “Technically. But again, it’s not even—”

“Where is it?” Yuuri pressed.

“Ah, in my room?”

Yuuri jumped up. He pulled Victor up by the wrist, and led them toward the door.

“Come on! At least show me how it turned out!”

Nothing good could come of this, but Victor let himself get dragged along. In Victor’s room, Yuuri flung open the closet door, and looked around. Victor tapped his shoulder to get his attention.

“It’s in Tchaikovsky.”

“In what?”

Victor picked up the statue from the corner of the room, and set it on the bed. Yuuri squinted at it.

“Victor, that’s a statue of Freddie Mercury.”

“It could be a young Tchaikovsky.”

“It says Freddie right at the bottom.”

“Yes...” Victor said, mentally cursing his seven year old self for having terrible observation skills. “Yes, it does.”

He flipped Tchaikovsky upside down, and gave Yuuri a steady look.

“I’m not kidding. It’s ugly, and it doesn’t fit anyone. Frankly, I was thinking of asking Mari to help me burn it.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows rose. “Mari knows?”

“She found out a while ago.”

“But she never said...” Yuuri trailed off, then sucked in a breath. “That’s why you’ve been doing chores for her, isn’t it? She’s been holding this over you.”

Victor shifted from side to side. “You make her sound like a villain.”

“She’s my older sister. Of course she has an evil streak.” Yuuri smiled and shook his head. He bounced on the balls of his feet. “But anyway. The sweater?”

Victor steeled himself, unscrewed the statue’s base, and opened it up.

Yuuri gasped as soon as he saw the gaping eyes, grabbed the sweater and held it up to the light. It looked even worse now than the day before. The stitches drooped, elongating it until it looked more like a short dress. It sagged and bunched up in all the wrong places. Victor had reproduced the tears and patches in the original, which were now looking even more ratty. If that were even possible.

Yuuri stared into its lifeless gaze. “How long did this take you?”

Victor coughed and looked away. “About six months.”

“Six _months?”_

“I’m not very fast, and I lost the first one, so it took a while.”

Yuuri gaped. “You spent six months on—wait, lost the first?”

“Not the original!” Victor waved his hands. “I have your mother’s, although it’s in, well, pieces. But the first time I tried, I...lost the knitting on the train.”

Yuuri frowned at the fabric, and pressed it to his chest. “You recreated my Mom’s sweater _twice_ _.”_

Victor tried to smile, though it came out more like a grimace.

“Pretty atrocious, isn’t it? So if you could hand that back, then we could burn this and pretend it never—”

“No!”

Yuuri stepped away from him, held up the hem, and began pulling it over his head.

“Yuuri,” Victor said, uselessly reaching out, “what are you doing?”

“It’s a sweater. I’m wearing it.”

“Wearing” was a generous way to describe it. Yuuri’s head had gotten trapped somewhere in one of the armholes, and his voice was muffled through layers of alpaca fur. One arm was stuck in the wrong hole, twisting the sweater backwards, and the other fumbled around in the torso.

Victor rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you need help?”

Yuuri stopped squirming. “Um.”

Victor ran his fingers through his hair, swallowed, and stepped forward. He shifted the sweater until Yuuri’s head poked out, and was rewarded by the sight of Yuuri’s huge smile.

“It’s warm,” Yuuri said.

“There is that, I suppose.”

Yuuri wriggled a little more, and Victor helped him put his arms in the right places. When they were done, Yuuri looked like the human embodiment of children’s tears. He leaned forward and hugged Victor. The sight of that horrid harlequin coming toward him made Victor startle.

“It’s so soft,” Yuuri mumbled into Victor’s chest. “It feels like wearing a cloud!”

“But it’s _hideous_ _.”_

“You made it for me, and that makes it beautiful.” Yuuri’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that reminds me of something.”

Victor looked down at him, brows furrowed. “What is it?”

“I need to show this to Mom.”

Victor paled, sunk to his knees, hands clasped and eyes pleading, gazing up at his brave, kind, clever, hardworking, and utterly evil boyfriend.

“Yuuri, please don’t.”

Yuuri didn’t even look at him. He took out a wrinkled tie—the lime and mauve one, of course—and looped it around his neck, in an asymmetrical knot that made Victor’s eye twitch.

“Her reaction should be pretty interesting, don’t you think?”

“ _Yuu-ri_ ,” Victor whined.

Yuuri’s lip twitched. “ _Vic-tor.”_

Victor groaned, and slumped to the floor. “I don’t know why you do this to me.”

Yuuri smoothed out the sweater, and knelt down to pet Victor’s hair.

“Because,” he said, “I want her to see your hard work.”

Victor made an incoherent grumble. It was hard to hold on to indignation when Yuuri was touching him like that. But Victor tried.

“Can’t you just,” he murmured, “show her _anything_ else I’ve done?”

“No.”

“Jerk.”

Yuuri chuckled. _“Your_ jerk.”

He strolled out the door, heedless of Victor’s pain, and Victor lay on the floor for several minutes of dread. It was the closest he could get to a hole in the ground to hide in. Then, from down the hall and across the lounge, came the sound of distant squeals. Of terror, probably.

Victor pulled himself to his feet, and set his shoulders back. If he was being honest with Yuuri, he might as well do it for everyone. The time for avoiding the truth was over.

But when he arrived in the lounge, he didn’t see the clown face. Instead, for some strange reason, he saw a lot of people in leotards gathered in a circle. They were taking pictures of Yuuri at a table, wearing the godforsaken sweater. And sitting next to Yuuri was Hiroko.

She spotted him behind the crowd, and waved them aside. “Vicchan! You made this?”

“Hiroko,” he said, “I am so, so sorry. I know that you made Yuuri’s sweater with time and love, and that Yuuri treasured it. I would never—”

“Oh, you mean that ratty old thing?”

Victor shut up.

Hiroko brought her hands up to her face, blushing brightly.

“It’s a bit sad, isn’t it? I can’t believe I got Pennywise’s eye color wrong.”

Victor stared. “What?”

“And the eyebrows and lipstick,” she said, shaking her head. “What was I thinking? They’re supposed to be black and red, not orange and purple.”

Victor reflexively mumbled, “Ginger and puce.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.”

“Anyway,” she said, “I’m sorry you went through all that trouble for a design that wasn’t even accurate. But your work is absolutely lovely! You’ve come a long way since you posted that thread.”

“What thread?”

“You know. _Makkachins_ _Papa_ _,_ right?”

That...was his Ravelry username. But he’d only posted there once, when he’d first asked for help, so how could—Oh. Oh, dear god. She’d known about him the _entire time._

Victor slumped, unable to say a word. Yuuri smiled and rubbed his neck.

“I think you broke him, Mom.”

He pulled Victor down to sit beside him at the table. Another camera clicked, and Victor barely registered Mari tapping at her phone.

Hiroko had called her sweater _ratty_. She called it _sad_. She was sitting with her kids, reminiscing about poor design choices with a smile on her face, while Yuuri willingly _wore_ Victor’s feeble imitation of ratty and sad.

When Victor had swallowed his fear, and confessed the sweater story to Yuuri, this was not how he expected the conversation to go.

Hiroko tilted her head. “Vicchan? Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he mumbled, not looking at her.

Mari snorted. “Don’t mind him. He likes turning everything into a big deal.”

Victor jolted out of his daze, and gaped at her. _She_ was the one who had blackmailed him about this! She made it seem like Yuuri would be devastated if he found out! Victor had pulled merkins out of drains, embarrassed himself in public, knitted so hard his hands almost fell off, and she just—

A hand clapped Yuuri on the back. Behind them, Minako beamed.

“Yuuri! You look like a fluffy nightmare.”

“Thanks!”

Victor stared at her. “Don’t you have classes today?”

“This _is_ my class.” She gestured to the people in leotards who waved back, some of them still taking photos. “Mari sent me and Yuuko a picture, and my students had to see it for themselves. Very nice.”

Victor shuddered. “But it’s _horrible!_ I mean, not the original, Hiroko. Yours was great—”

“Aww, how sweet,” Mari drawled.

“—But the shoulders are wrong, the seams are drooping, and of course the _size_ is—”

Yuuri leaned over, and put his hand over Victor’s mouth.

“Victor. I love it. You can’t make me not love it. And I’m going to wear it everywhere.”

Victor gave Yuuri his best sad puppy eyes. “Is this your revenge for losing the original?”

“No. It’s me telling the world that my wonderful boyfriend spent six months making something for me because he wanted me to be happy.”

Minako translated that to Japanese, and her students cooed. Victor coughed and kept his eyes on Yuuri.

“I could make you a real sweater. One that actually fits.”

“I’d love that. But I’ll still wear this one, too.”

Victor gave up. He rested his chin in one hand, and sighed.

Yuuri was wearing the sweater. In public. In front of _everyone,_ though Hiroko had disappeared somewhere. Mari’s photos were probably terrorizing half the internet already. An entire crowd of strangers had stopped their class to take pictures of the sweater, in all its ugly, misshapen glory. And, despite everything, they actually seemed to like it.

Maybe that was just how knitting was. It could never be perfect. But, it didn’t have to be.

From the moment he arrived in Japan, Victor had made one mistake after another, from abandoning Yurio to making Yuuri cry. But here he was, sitting with them at their dinner table, Yuuri wrapping an arm around his waist. It was okay. And even if Victor screwed up again, he could apologize, and do his best to fix it, and it would be okay.

Because _he_ didn’t have to be perfect, either.

The last few knots unraveled in his chest, and the lack of sleep from last night finally hit him. He slouched into Yuuri’s side, eyes half-closed. On his back, Yuuri’s fingers lightly scratched through the fabric of Victor’s shirt, as if reading his mind. Minako began herding her students back toward the studio to finish their class.

“How did you find the time to do this?” Yuuri asked. “We’ve been training full-time for months.”

Victor glanced toward Mari and Minako, and thought of Yuuko and the triplets. He smiled.

“I had a lot of help.”

Hiroko returned carrying the basket of yarn from her room, Makkachin at her heels. She set it on the table in front of Victor. Two dozen skeins must have sat in there, some bright, some fuzzy, a few multicolored ones that looked almost edible—no, focus, Victor. He was supposed to be talking to Hiroko.

He asked, “What’s this for?”

“Neither of my kids does crafts,” she said. “And Minako’s taste in yarn is more expensive than mine. I was starting to think my stash would gather dust forever.”

“You don’t mean...”

“It’s mostly just acrylic, nothing fancy. But I hear that’s good for making toys.”

Victor’s cheeks burned, and he had to look away. From the very beginning, she’d had the same reasons to be suspicious of him like Minako, or resentful like Mari. Yet she always treated him with love, even before he’d done anything to deserve it. He’d pushed that love away, not because he didn’t care, but because he felt unworthy of it.

“ _So many people cared about me,”_ Yuuri had said once, _“but I never let myself feel cared for.”_

Being loved, truly loved, wasn't about being worthy. It was about courage: the courage to let another person see your whole self, and the courage to believe you were lovable.

So Victor gathered his courage, and looked her in the eye.

“Thank you, Hiroko.”

She beamed, and ruffled his hair. “It’ll be nice to have another knitter in the family.”

He really did have to look away at that, but he couldn’t hide his smile.

A smudge of curls caught his eye, and from the bottom of the basket he retrieved a fuzzy brown skein. It looked a bit like ringlets. Or poodle fur.

He drew in a breath. “Mini-Makka.”

Makkachin perked up. Hiroko cocked her head. “Hmm?”

It was already November, and between the Cup of China and the sweater nonsense, Yuuri’s birthday had slipped Victor’s mind. But with yarn like this—

“You know my knitted Makkachin doll?” He squished the skein against his chest. “I could use this to make a matching one for Yuuri!”

“Vicchan,” Hiroko said gently, “that doll is crocheted.”

He froze, yarn still in his hands. “What?”

“Crochet is another way to turn yarn into fabric. Where knitting uses two needles, crochet uses a hook.”

“So you’re saying...”

“You’d have to learn a completely different craft.”

Victor blanched. He slumped onto the table, face to the wood, and let out a long whine.

Yuuri rubbed Victor’s back and chuckled. “I’m sure it can’t be harder than knitting a whole sweater twice.”

“Nnghh.”

Hiroko laughed, and headed back to the kitchen. Victor lay there for a few moments. He had nearly dozed off when someone rapped their knuckles on his head.

“Ow.”

“Hey,” came Mari’s voice. “Exactly how big is the sweater?”

He slowly blinked up at her, and she sat with her head tilted, studying the garment. Victor shrugged.

Yuuri tugged at the neckline. “I could easily fit two of me in here.”

“So,” she said, mouth curving into a smirk, “we could get a picture of _him_ wearing it.”

Victor turned back to the table. “Mrmmf.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I think he’s a little tired,” Yuuri said. “Leave him alone, Mari.”

“He's the one who made it. It's only fair.”

Victor lifted his head slightly, and took another look at the sweater. The table was hard, and the sweater looked very soft. _Yuuri_ looked very soft.

“Two of you, you said?”

Yuuri blinked back at him. “Yeah?”

“Good.”

Victor leaned over, grabbed the hem, and pulled it over his head. Yuuri yelped. For a minute there was a lot of wiggling, and laughter, and they were almost nose to nose when Yuuri managed to settle the collar back down. Around _both_ their necks.

Mari held up her phone, and murmured, “Dorks.”

Weeks later, when fans stopped him at Rostelecom and at the Final, Victor would happily confirm that yes, he’d made the monstrosity in Mari’s photo. And if the sweater was big enough for him _and_ Yuuri to snuggle inside, that was totally on purpose. Totally.

But that was later. For now, he ignored the click of the camera, and wrapped his arms around Yuuri’s waist. The sweater really was as cozy as it looked. Just right for winter nights on the couch together. His eyelids grew heavy, and Yuuri held him close, fingers scratching at Victor’s hair.

He probably still had that crochet hook somewhere...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When a knitted object unravels, that means it is falling apart. But unraveling isn't always a bad thing. It's also a way to fix your mistakes, to get a fresh start, and to transform an ugly, unwanted object into something awesome.
> 
> Thank you for reading this! I hope you enjoyed watching Victor unravel and knit himself back together as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Ironically, I am not planning a sequel for this story, because I am busy with actually knitting a sweater, and you know how long _that_ takes. There are no terrifying clown faces in it. I promise.
> 
> Shout-out to [Starbuck7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starbuck7/pseuds/Starbuck7), who provided brilliant advice for improving this story. If you're into Voltron, she has a knack for characterization, and has also written [a couple stories featuring knitting](https://archiveofourown.org/series/841152).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Unraveling of Victor Nikiforov [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659496) by [sobieru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobieru/pseuds/sobieru)




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